A Musketeer's Heart
by ArtemisXYZ
Summary: Someone new has joined the musketeers and got paired up with our fearless foursome. But Alexandre Reynaud isn't what he appears, with a hidden agenda that might get them all killed, whose secret will affect the dynamic, relationships and lives between them, striking right through the heart of a musketeer.
1. Prologue

A person did a lot for those they loved. Was willing to do about anything to save a loved one. Sacrifice everything they held dear, forsake everything else. Forget about their own safety and put their lives on the line.

Even if it meant pretending to be somebody else, something else.

For Alec that meant joining the musketeers under false pretences, under a false name. The plan had been fairly simple, really. Join the musketeers, befriend them, gain their trust, bid time until they were willing to help. Fight alongside them, drink with them, laugh with them, help them, trust them...

Unfortunately, no plan is perfect. Unforeseen circumstances might occur, throwing even the best laid plans askew.

For Alec's plan didn't include falling in love. So utterly and completely the person for whose rescue the plan had been prepared, suddenly wasn't the only one Alec was willing to do anything for anymore. So utterly and completely in love, that the usually reticent and taciturn novice musketeer spoke out of line, even if it was to tell the truth.

And telling the bloody truth to a bloody idiot got Alec knocked over by a punch.

Whoever said falling in love was beautiful should be hanged immediately.

.

.

Aramis flexed his aching fingers, glaring down at the young man sprawled at his feet. He felt like kicking himself for punching Alec, but he's felt like punching him ever since the boy joined their little tight-knit group. It was either that or—Aramis gritted his teeth. It was unnatural, what he felt, not normal. There was just something about the kid that rubbed him the wrong way.

Yes, he could admit at liking the boy. A lot. Too much sometimes. He was good—very good—with the sword, he could shoot a fly at a hundred yards, he had a wicked sense of humour, and a very dry wit, he fought dirty—he had to, with his tiny stature, he could drink them all under the table, the ladies loved him, and Aramis was convinced the boy cheated at cards, although he had no proof.

But what mattered the most to him, to all of them, was the fact Alec had their backs. From the first day Tréville assigned him to their group, making him an apprentice musketeer as a favour to a friend, the kid has made an impression. With his looks—no wonder he was popular with the ladies, and with his skill and courage.

He, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan have debated on the kid's age, but shy of asking him outright, they couldn't come to an agreement. And none of them wanted to ask. The excuse was they didn't want to pry, but Aramis knew the reason lay elsewhere. It was that same reason that prevented them from asking Alexandre Reynaud anything about him or his life.

The eyes.

Those pale green eyes of his.

The kid had a way of looking at them—at anybody, really, when he wanted to—that made it seem as if he was looking straight at their souls, weighing them to see if they were worthy. That almost unblinking stare was very effective and bloody useful at times, when it made whoever stood in front of them or in their way, shift on their feet or in the saddle, or made the suspect they were interrogating spill his secrets without much effort. But it was also a bloody nuisance when Alec turned that steady, all-seeing stare at them. Which usually happened whenever they got too curious about him.

Which should probably make them suspicious. Instead, it made them squirm, feeling as if the boy could read their minds, discover all their secrets, know what lay deep in their hearts. Which was true in Aramis' case. Although the kid hadn't read his mind, Aramis had been the one to tell him everything one drunken evening, after an excruciating afternoon spent in the company of the Queen and her infant son. _His_ infant son.

Up until that evening, Athos had been the only one, beside him and Queen Anne, to know the truth. But Alec had suspected it, Aramis had seen it in the boy's steady gaze whenever they were in the presence of the Queen. And he'd seen it in his eyes that night. Which had spurred him out from their barracks and into the first tavern down the street. That should have been the end of it, but the boy had followed him, sat at the table opposite him...And simply waited, his eyes never wavering from Aramis' face. He'd felt his stare, despite not looking up from his tankard of ale, and when he'd lifted his head to send the boy to hell, Alec simply cocked his head...Aramis had told him everything, and Alec simply listened, his eyes slowly filling with sadness and sorrow. And something akin to pain. As if he knew what unrequited love felt like.

It was in that moment, Aramis knew the kid would never tell, would never judge.

Only to be proven wrong a few weeks later.

So here he stood, gritting his teeth, waiting for Alec to spring to his feet, and punch him back. Yet the kid only levelled that pale green stare at him, and Aramis felt worse than if the kid struck him back. Those eyes were filled with hurt, as if the punch had been a stab to the back.

Then Alec blinked, and the hurt was replaced with a stony mask, eyes carefully blank. He wiped the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, and slowly gained his feet. Aramis flexed his hand again, waiting for the attack, but Alec merely looked at him archly, making him feel small and insignificant. Aramis remembered his mother had used to look at him like that when he'd done something he shouldn't have had.

"The first one is free," Alec said calmly. "Next time you hit me, you better hope you knock me unconscious."

He turned, and calmly strolled out of the tavern, leaving Aramis staring after him perturbed, his heart hurting at the knowledge that he hadn't punched the boy for telling the truth—he'd known it was true from the moment the Queen had revealed her pregnancy, he'd hit Alec because punching him was the only possible choice. But what hurt the most was the fact their friendship was over. He'd seen it in Alec's eyes.

The eyes that have been haunting his dreams since that first day. Eyes that would probably never look at him with sparks of a smile in them.


	2. Chapter 1

_England, a few weeks earlier_

Alexandra Hamilton-Burke cut the stem of another rose and added it to her basket. She perused her floral loot with a satisfied smile. Each bloom was perfect, no spots or tears, and the colour was uniform. They would look beautiful in the vase above the mantel.

She tucked the shears into the basket, under the roses, and strolled leisurely toward the house, filling her lungs with the heady aromas of spring. The scent of her freshly cut roses mixed with that of the wildflowers blooming behind the low garden wall, the grass still smelled freshly of last night's rain...She loved spring in the countryside.

She loved countryside, period. No matter the season.

Here, on her brother's estate, she was free of the judgemental eyes of the court, of the sneers and whispers accompanying her every step of the way, of snickers and comments exchanged behind flimsy drapes and discreetly lifted palms, of gleeful explanations of her _true origin_ to the few people at court that didn't know her yet.

In the countryside, she was free to do as she pleased, knowing no one would judge her. The servants and peasants on the extensive grounds, loved both her brother and her. They've known both of them since they were children, they all helped raise the two of them in one form or the other. They'd helped teach them how to ride, how to shoot, how to fence. They taught them how to swim, how to survive with whatever Nature gave them. Taught them how to distinguish different roots and herbs, how to make potions and pomades, how to dress scrapes and wounds.

The countryside was her home, and she knew that despite his obligations and duties at court, her brother felt the same. She knew Robert was always looking forward to coming home, to spend a few weeks—if King James could spare him—unwinding in the peaceful quietness of the countryside.

Alexandra grinned. He was probably itching to get home from France by now, fairly quivering with the need to board a ship and leave, diplomatic mission be damned.

He'd tried to convince her to go with him to Paris, painting her a picture of how beautiful that city was, how opulent the palace, offering all kinds of incentives for her to join him. He'd introduce her at court where no one knew the truth...Who knew, she could even meet a fine gentleman there, fall in love, get married, and settle down in the French countryside.

She's laughed in his face and sent him on his way. She loved the _English_ countryside just fine, and had no intention of getting to know the French one. And she loathed their own court enough not to be visiting another one. Thank you very much.

Alexandra shook her head as if to shake the unwanted and unwelcome thought out of her mind. The court had no place in her head right now. She was home, she was happy, her brother would be coming back soon. Only happy thoughts were needed at this time.

At the entrance to the kitchen, she stopped over, picked up the brush, and cleaned her boots. It wouldn't do leaving muddy footprints all over the house. She swiped her feet on the threshold for good measure, and entered the warm kitchen where her mouth promptly watered.

She looked cautiously around, but the kitchen appeared deserted. With a mischievous grin, she tiptoed toward the wooden table where a cloth-covered tin tray stood, beckoning her closer. She lifted the cloth and peeked underneath it, and saliva once again filled her mouth.

Sugar cakes. Her favourite.

She licked her lips and was about to snatch one, when Cook bustled in and harrumphed. Alexandra jumped away from the table like a scalded cat, schooling her features into a, hopefully convincing, sheepish expression.

Cook, naturally, wasn't fooled. "Those are for later, my lady."

Alexandra grinned. "I was just making sure they were baked properly, tis all."

Cook nodded, her eyes twinkling. "I'm sure ye were, my lady. But there's no need for that. I can guarantee, they are."

Alexandra cocked her head. "Are you certain."

"Quite, my lady." Cook frowned as she ran her eyes from Alexandra's head to her toes. And back. "Now, why don't you go upstairs and change into something appropriate for a lady?"

Alexandra rolled her eyes. Although they all accepted her the way she was, and loved her dearly, that never prevented them from at least trying to make her accept the norms society has imposed on women for centuries. How she dressed was one of them. She preferred to wear men's clothing in the countryside. She felt freer with no tight bodices cutting off her air supply, or miles and miles of petticoats and cumbersome skirts and gowns to impede her movements. She had enough of those at court, she preferred shirts, sleeves, and boots when she was home.

But that never prevented anyone, her brother included, when he was in one of his moods, from bothering her with their views on what she wore. There was cajoling, sniffing, an occasional snit or two, emotional blackmail, and, when everything else failed, bargaining.

Alexandra loved bargaining. Especially when there was cake in a not so distant future.

She grinned again. "What do I get, if I put on a gown?" _What do I get if I willingly submit to slow strangulation?_

Cook put her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. She knew very well where this was headed, and Alexandra knew, she was already regretting having said anything.

"A sugar cake after you come down dressed in that new gown your brother ordered for you," she grumbled grudgingly.

Alexandra lifted three fingers. "Three. It's a new gown, it's bound to be even more constricting than the rest." She nodded. "Three sugar cakes."

"Lady Alex!"

Alexandra shrugged and hefted her basket of roses. "Fine. Breeches it is."

Cook hung her head on a moan. "Two."

Alexandra's ears perked. "Excuse me?"

"Two sugar cakes," Cook repeated with a glare. "Nothing more."

"Agreed."

.

.

Alexandra was still chuckling at the Cook's defeated expression when she was sitting in a plush chair facing the hearth in the main parlour, munching on her two sugar cakes, feeling uncomfortably restricted in the pale green gown her brother had ordered because it "complimented her eyes", when there was a knock on the parlour door.

"A message, my lady," Penny, Cook's daughter, said, offering a missive.

Alexandra frowned. By the looks of it, the message had been on quite a journey. The parchment was simply folded in half without a seal, it was wrinkled, muddy, and its edges torn. She brushed the crumbs off her hands, took the message and unfolded it.

She trembled at the sight of her brother's handwriting. Then the words registered, and she felt her heart stutter. She read them again, then looked once more at the parchment. By the wear and tear it looked weeks old. Was there still hope left? Was he still alive? What should she do? Who can she turn to?

She jumped to her feet, grabbing Penny by her upper arms. "Go fetch Black, Spencer, Taylor, and the Smithy. Tell them to come to the kitchen. Go!"

As Penny ran, Alexandra curled her fingers into a fist. She could hear the crushing of the parchment, but it didn't matter. She knew what was written on it.

Her brother's plea.

 _La Rochelle._


	3. Chapter 2

Robert wasn't at La Rochelle. There wasn't any sign he's ever been there. Whoever had taken him, for whatever the reason, knew how to cover their tracks.

But this time they weren't good enough. Something must have gone wrong, for there was a clue. The missive that had arrived a week after Alexandra has sent the enquiry to the French branch of their family, held only one word. _Paris._

Another gathering had taken place in the large kitchen, but this time Alexandra had been adamant. No more enquiries, no more missives. They needed to be proactive. _She_ needed to be proactive. The diplomatic mission had obviously gone terribly wrong, and when something like that happened, the court always severed ties with whomever made something like that go wrong. They couldn't count on the court, they couldn't count on the King's help.

All they could count on were themselves. All her brother could count on was her.

The servants, gathered around the kitchen table were outraged at her plan, but they all knew there were no other options. Asking anyone else for help would only result in complete and utter ignorance of King James and his court toward what her brother was doing in France. There would be no diplomatic attempts at retrieval, no rescue attempts. Robert would be on his own.

Alexandra refused to even contemplate that notion. He had one ally. An ally that would get him back no matter what. His sister.

Meg, her chambermaid, cried when she gathered Alexandra's long hair in her left hand, and picked up the scissors with her right. "I cannot do this, mistress. Please, don't ask me to do it."

Alexandra rolled her eyes, and snatched the scissors from the maid's hands. "Tis just hair, Meg. It will grow back."

She gathered her hair in a long tail, brought it in front of her over one shoulder. She stared at her reflection critically, judging the right length. She needed something not too short, yes, she _had_ some vanity, decided to cut it just above the shoulders. She picked up the scissors, glared at the sobbing Meg, and snipped.

Alexandra felt a little pinch around the heart as shorn black tresses fell onto the floorboards, but she had no time for sentimentality. As she told Meg, it was just hair. It was worth it, if it could help her bring Robert safely home.

Determined even more than before, she stood, tied the hair at the back of her neck with a leather thong, squared her shoulders, and marched toward her armoire. Lucky for her, what was in there would be more than helpful in making her appear as a man. Male linen shirts, leather breeches and doublets, custom-made boots...Everything a man needed, because there was no time to waste.

The next morning, Meg, still in tears, helped her bind her breasts—luckily she'd be able to do that by herself, Alexandra carefully applied her fake beard, strapped on her sword, made especially for her, tucked a pistol into her waist band, a dagger into her boot, and put on her brother's leather hat. She inspected herself in the looking glass with a critical eye, quite satisfied with the results.

Gone was the dainty lady of the manor. In her place stood a young man, dressed in leather from head to toe, his longish brown hair restrained at the nape of his neck, the lower part of his dusky face—her golden skin tone was an inherited trait, making her appear even more out of place among pale-skinned women at court—covered by a few days worth of beard.

She grinned, pulled the brim of the hat lower over her right eye, tugged on her gloves, and winked at her reflection. It was time to go on her adventure.

.

.

She had time on her hands, crossing the sea to France. And all she could do while sailing toward the port of Le Havre, was think. Has she been rash with her plan of action? Maybe. Probably. Could there possibly be other options to save Robert? Maybe. Probably. And if she knew for certain that he was still alive, if she knew for certain where he was, she'd probably plan accordingly. Ask appropriate people for help.

But she didn't have the luxury of knowing what has really befallen her brother. She had no idea of where he was, who's taken him, and why. She didn't know whether he was even still alive. She could only wish and hope she'd find him, get to him in time.

And she knew she couldn't do it alone. She could survive, of that she was certain. No one on her journey so far has suspected she was anything but a young man travelling to France to visit his relatives. She could protect herself, she's been training to protect herself since she was six—life had a way of opening a person's eyes even from a tender age, and although she's been presented into society, she'd kept up with her training. Shooting, fencing, riding, fighting. She knew every dirty move there was, because she had to know them. She didn't have the advantage of height or strength, she had to use whatever was necessary to gain the upper hand.

She'd survive the journey. She'd survive the search for Robert.

She wasn't that confident in her ability to survive the rescue mission.

She played with the ring her father has given her for her fourteenth birthday, the last birthday he celebrated with her. She's taken it off her middle finger and put it on a chain she now wore around her neck. Worrying her fingers over the ring always calmed her, helped her focus. It didn't help this time, and Alexandra sighed.

She'd known from the start it would be a foolish mission if she attempted it alone, so she's devised an additional plan for when she reached France. She needed help, she needed reinforcements, and she knew just where to get them. She only hoped she'd be able to convince her cousin's husband to help her.

And even then it would take time. One didn't just stroll into the musketeers' garrison, demanding help in locating one's brother. It would take stealth and wits to gain their trust in hopes of ultimately getting their help.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth. But what if the King of France was the one holding her brother captive? Then the musketeers would be of no help. They'd be the enemy, her brother's captors and guards.

Yet another good reason to infiltrate their ranks.


	4. Chapter 3

Alexandra stood in the middle of Captain de Tréville's office, staring steadily at the man across his massive desk. He might appear a bit worse for wear, but anyone foolish enough to underestimate Tréville would pay a heavy price, that was obvious. His frame was still muscular, not a speck of extra fat anywhere, his posture ramrod-straight, his hands almost perpetually clenched into fists, as if he was expecting a fight to erupt any minute. But it was his expression, and especially the look in his eyes, that worried Alexandra.

He was clenching his teeth as if to prevent himself from sending her to Hell, and his gaze was suspicious. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. He was looking at her intently, and it took some effort not to fidget. He looked like he knew she wasn't who she was pretending to be.

"Alexandre Reynaud, eh?" he finally spoke, reading the name from the letter on his desk.

Her cousin had come up with that name. The given name was close to her own, making it easier to remember, and respond to when called. Reynaud was her cousin's last name after marrying Sebastien Reynaud a few years ago. Christine had figured it would be easier to pass off as Sebastian's relative since he was the one recommending her to Tréville.

Alec, as she'd insisted to be called for the past couple of days, was glad her cousin's husband had agreed, and rather quickly, to the idea. She had explained what had happened to Robert, how she had had no other option but to try and save him herself, with Christine's help they'd explained why and how Alec was more than able for the mission...Still, Sebastien Reynaud had agreed too quickly.

It worried Alec. It worried her what the man had written to his friend in that blasted letter. Just how was he asking for a favour? Had Sebastian written Tréville the truth? That Alexandre Reynaud was indeed a woman on a foolish mission to rescue her missing brother? That Tréville should send her home immediately? Or that she should join her brother in the Bastille never to be heard of again?

Alec once again had trouble swallowing.

Tréville looked at her again, cocked his head as if measuring her up. "Reynaud writes you're four and twenty."

"Indeed, sir," Alec replied in a husky tone. She'd known she could never pass as a man speaking normally, and even less if she tried replicating a deeper tone, so she'd opted on speaking huskily, as if her throat was sore. Which it was becoming thanks to the strain she kept putting on it. All the better to keep up pretences.

"You don't look four and twenty. You don't even look old enough to shave," Tréville snapped.

Alec shrugged nonchalantly. "Looks can be deceiving."

Tréville harrumphed and leaned back in his chair. "It also writes here you're exceptionally well trained."

Alec didn't say a word, simply looked at him.

"Although coming from Reynaud, that is high praise indeed, I'll be the judge of that." Tréville crossed his arms over his chest. "Why do you want to become a musketeer, son?"

"Honour and glory, sir."

Tréville frowned. "If you want attention and glory, you better join the Red Guard. I have no need for the likes of you in my garrison."

"I meant honour in life and glory in death, sir," Alec explained. "I want to make a difference, I want to help any way I can. I want to be part of something greater, I want to be a part of the musketeers, I want to experience what "one for all and all for one" truly means."

"It means laying down your life for your comrade, no matter what. Are you prepared to do that? Die for someone?"

"More than you know."

Tréville straightened in his chair, his eyes conveying he liked what he saw. "Musketeers never leave a man behind."

"I'm well aware of that, sir." That's why she was here in the first place. She refused to abandon her brother.

Tréville slammed his palm on his desk. "I trust Reynaud. He's saved my life too many times for me to doubt him. And if he wants me to repay his favour by taking you into my musketeers, he's more generous than I thought."

Alec wanted to whoop, but she schooled her features to remain steady, and simply nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Tréville rounded his desk, and slapped her on the back with such force, she stumbled forward, making him frown. "Don't thank me yet, boy. You're on probation." He opened the door, motioned with his head for her to precede him. "I'll let my four best men evaluate you. You pass their test, you're in."

Alec stepped through the door and resisted the urge to roll her aching shoulder. From now on, she'd need to be on her toes every second of the day. She couldn't afford to get knocked over by a slap on the back. She needed to toughen up, anticipate her opponents' moves, and duck at opportune moments. She squared her shoulders as Tréville fell in step alongside her. If there was something she knew well, was when and how to avoid getting hit. She'd learned that even before she learned how to fight.

.

.

When Aramis walked into the courtyard alongside Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan, almost all musketeers not stationed elsewhere were present.

"Oh my, who died?" he asked the closest musketeer, lounging against a wooden pillar.

"No one yet, but apparently we're getting a novice today."

His three friends snickering, they all knew how Tréville liked to greet their novices—that's why they recruited so few musketeers, Aramis nodded sagely. "I'll say a prayer for him."

The barrack door on the other side of the courtyard opened, and Tréville appeared. "Men, we have a new recruit. Alexandre Reynaud." He half turned. "What shall we call you? Reynaud?"

"Alec will do just fine," came a raspy reply from the yet-unseen novice musketeer, and Aramis thought there wasn't much substance there, if the kid—judging by the voice—couldn't be seen from behind Tréville's frame.

Tréville shrugged, probably already thinking about what possible nickname the men might come up with. "It's your name." Then he moved aside, and the musketeers got a first glimpse of their new comrade.

Aramis couldn't resist a quiet chuckle. This one wouldn't last a day. The boy, there was no other word for him, barely reached Tréville's sternum, he was all legs, and didn't look strong enough to wear the sword with the intricate handguard currently strapped to his waist. As Tréville motioned him forward, the boy, _Alec_ , stepped from underneath the overhang and into the patch of sunlight filtering through the low-hanging clouds.

In full light, he looked even less of a musketeer than in the shade. And although the clothes fit him well, the hat looked too large for his head, making him appear rather comical, like a boy dressing up to be like his father.

A corner of his mouth curving up, the boy took his hat off with a flourish, bending forward in an exaggerated bow. " _Messieurs._ "

He straightened, and a collective gasp rose among the musketeers. The boy's black hair, with the sun shining down on him, shone with a muted reddish hue, like the dying embers of a fire. Although he didn't look old enough to shave, a few days worth of scruff shaded his jaw line. It was more than d'Artanian could manage to grow. But what made the men gasp were the boy's eyes. They appeared colourless, merging with the whites of his eyes. He looked blind. Then the sun hid behind a cloud, and Aramis saw his eyes were in fact pale green. Like the reflection of foliage in a forest pool, they contrasted sharply with the tanned skin on the boy's face. And if the colour of the eyes wasn't enough, the look in them did the rest. His steady gaze moved from man to man, never wavering, as if willing them to challenge him, silently conveying the message Alexandre Reynaud wouldn't back down no matter what.

Man after man looked away as they met that pale, disconcerting gaze. Watching it unfold in front of him, Aramis vowed not to join them. He liked a challenge. He waited patiently for his turn, his smirk growing when in turn Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan squirmed and looked away. He reasoned one never knew his friends after all, because he'd never pegged them to surrender so easily. Quelled by a stare. _Pussies._

Then those pale green eyes met his, and everything stopped. His breath hitched in his throat, and he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He felt as if something inside him that has been askew all his life snapped into place. Everything inside him coiled, as if he was a cord pulled too tight.

He couldn't look away even if he wanted to.

He saw those eyes widen, the boys lips parted as his breath quickened, and Aramis swallowed heavily, clenching his fists against the urge to take a step forward. And another. And then another.

What was this? What was happening to him? What was it about those eyes that affected him so?

It was Tréville that broke the spell by stepping in front of Alec once more, blocking Aramis' line of vision. "Now, let's see what you're made of.

.

.

Alec's heart was still beating hard and fast, her breath still erupted from her lungs in quick, shallow gasps, her stomach was still rolling, her head swimming, when Tréville sicced one of the men, later she'd learn his name was Mercier, on her.

She didn't know what hit her, since she was still reeling from the force of that last stare-off. People had problems with looking her in the eye, sometimes even people who knew her looked startled. Her brother often told her it wasn't so much the colour, although she _did_ appear blind in certain lighting, but the way she looked at people. Although women were supposed to look at the world from beneath their eyelashes, downcasting their eyes demurely, she preferred to look at the world, and the people living in it, squarely in the eye. The way she reasoned, was that if her straight gaze bothered people it was because they had something to hide.

So far, everybody she's ever looked at, had turned their eyes away. Even Robert. It appeared she'd finally met someone who had nothing to hide, after all. The musketeer with intense brown eyes had startled her. He'd held her eyes as if it was a challenge, making her breath hitch in her throat, her stomach somersault, and spreading warmth throughout her body. She'd never felt like that before. It was heady, it was exhilarating...And it was disconcerting.

No wonder people looked away when she stared.

In that brief moment they held each other's gazes, she felt like he could see inside her, see all her secrets. She felt exposed, naked under that intense scrutiny...And it made her sluggish, offering Mercier an opening, he used at a full advantage.

It wasn't until her head connected hardly with the ground that Alec snapped out of the haze. Mercier grinned evilly down at her, probably feeling this was an opportunity for revenge, since he looked away immediately when she looked at him before. Others snickered, obviously enjoying the fact she was one the ground. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tréville shake his head in disappointment, and the musketeer that had held her gaze looked troubled.

What did he have to feel troubled about? She was the one on the ground. She was the one letting the one opportunity to gain access to the musketeers slip through her fingers.

 _Not today!_

She lifted her pelvis off the ground, rolled backward over her head, and smoothly gained her feet. Mercier looked impressed for a moment, then his grin spread. He must've thought her easy prey.

Alec returned the grin. Mercier, Tréville, the brown-eyed musketeer, all the others...They had no idea who they were dealing with.

Mercier sprung forward, and Alec went dirty. She kicked him in the side of his knee, and when he was down, she sent her knee up under his chin.

Lights out.

She shook her head in disgust, looking at him lying in an unconscious heap at her feet. She'd expected him to last longer.

She looked up, and saw a spark of approval in Tréville's eyes. Then he nodded, and sounds of rapiers sliding from scabbards sounded around the courtyard. Alec gritted her teeth, when she felt someone at her back. Before she could reach for her own sword, the musketeer that had held her eye, stood by her side, sword drawn, eyes forward.

A younger man with shoulder-length hair and just a hint of scruff on his chin flanked him, while two larger musketeers positioned on Alec's other side. All three had drawn their swords, and neither looked at her, keeping watchful eyes on the other approaching musketeers, that have begun approaching a lot more cautiously.

"You might want to draw your sword," the man at her right, his eyes alert under the brim of his hat, suggested.

"It's the pointy thing strapped to your waist," the brown-eyed man who'd held her gaze added helpfully.

It seemed the four were her backup. Alec rolled her eyes, pulled out her sword, and all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter 4

Sebastien Reynaud hadn't been sitting idly by as his wife's cousin entered the musketeer corps disguised as a man. He's been collecting favours all over the country, trying to find any clue as to the fate of Robert Hamilton-Burke. Who had taken him? Where were they keeping him? Was he still alive?

It hadn't been only his wife's plea that had prompted him to write to his friend Tréville to let Alexandra become a musketeer-in-training. And it hadn't been only because he liked both the girl and her brother. He knew what Alexandra felt, he knew that feeling of hopelessness that enveloped a person when someone they loved could be lost forever. He knew that the only thing that combated that hopelessness, was being proactive, the knowledge of doing something to solve the situation.

Reynaud knew that Alexandra was more than capable of looking after herself, he'd helped in teaching her some of the tricks in her repertoire. He'd known from the first moment she'd taken his sword away from him during a sparring match, she'd only continue to improve, and learn. And he knew that she not only wanted, but _needed_ to do something to discover what had befallen her brother, and he knew she'd do something, anything, with or without his help. And knowing no one would be able to sway her, he'd decided to help her the best way he could—guarantee she had allies watching her back, keeping a semblance of a leash on her. Because while she'd barely blink at the thought of risking her own life, she'd never risk someone else's. Tréville and his musketeers would help her, watch over her, and by having her watch their backs in return, she'd take less risks.

And since a missing leg prevented his more physical involvement in Alexandra's quest, Reynaud decided to help her the best he could. By cashing in the favours owned to him in form of information.

Today one of those favours has finally paid off. A man, whose description matched Robert's, had been seen transported, in chains and under the cloak of night, to Château de Roquetaillade, one of the many properties owned by Cardinal Richelieu.

There could only be one reason for an English diplomatic emissary to end up in the hands of France's First Minister. Richelieu didn't want any sort of alliance formed between France and England. And he wasn't yet done with his plan, if Robert was still alive.

Reynaud smiled cynically as he sealed the two letters he'd written. Richelieu, a man many said was infallible, had made a mistake. He should've taken someone else prisoner.

.

.

Aramis and Porthos were the last to arrive to Tréville's office. Athos and d'Artagnan were already waiting. One look at their Captain's face, and Aramis knew whatever had happened wasn't pleasant. Only one person's actions could bring that particular expression on Tréville's face.

"What has he done now?" he asked with a sigh.

Whomever has done whatever they were in Tréville's office for, didn't have to be mentioned. Cardinal Richelieu was not a favourite for any of them.

Tréville leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Apparently kidnapped a foreign emissary."

"Spanish? Austrian?" Aramis asked, meeting his friends' eyes.

Tréville shook his head. "English."

"Ah." Aramis shrugged. "Can't he keep him?"

"I'll let you ask Alec Reynaud that."

Athos leaned forward, eyes sharpening. "What does the kid have to do with it?"

"The Englishman is his cousin."

"Sebastien Reynaud's wife's cousin," a husky voice corrected from behind them, making Aramis stiffen.

Damn that voice that made shivers trickle down his spine every time the boy spoke. Damn those eyes that seemed to see everything. Damn these strange and unwelcome feelings Aramis felt every single time the boy was near. It made him angry, and when angry, Aramis needed a target. This time there wasn't any. There were only the Captain and his friends. He'd never hit the Captain— Tréville would probably kill him, and Aramis had never before hit a friend in anger. He wasn't about to start now, no matter how much he wanted to. It was either that or give in to the urge that's been plaguing him more and more lately. The urge to grab Alec by the shoulders and—

He shook his head like a wet dog, trying to dislodge the thought. Dislodge the mental image that was becoming more and more vivid with each passing day.

"Semantics," Tréville replied, and narrowed his eyes on Alec. "At least Reynaud's intervention makes sense. You needed an inside track into our ranks."

"You're a spy?" Aramis asked between gritted teeth. While the thought of being attracted to a man—he shuddered—was unbearable, unnatural, being attracted to a spy was probably even worse.

Alec simply stared at them with that calm gaze of his. "I might've been at first. I needed to make sure, you weren't in on the plan."

"Of all the—"

Alec lifted a hand, stopping Porthos in his tracks. "We're talking about an English diplomat here, discussing a peace treaty. For all I knew, the King had been the one having him removed."

"That makes sense."

Three pairs of accusing eyes focused on d'Artagnan, while Tréville looked unperturbed, as if he'd come to the same conclusion.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Think about it. If it would've been the King, the musketeers would be the ones guarding this man. It made sense to infiltrate our ranks in search of clues. It's a simple process of elimination. Once it's clear the King didn't do it, you're left with only one option."

"Richelieu," Alec finished. "My cousin wrote me he'd informed you of everything as well," he said, looking at Tréville. "I do apologize for the pretence, but if I could redo it all, I wouldn't change a thing."

Tréville inclined his head slightly. "I understand. Now, what do you expect us to do?"

"Probably help him rescue the Englishman," Aramis spat. "Not only did he come here to spy, he came here in order to gain our trust, so we'd help him in the end. It is, after all, one for all and all for one."

"You would have done the same."

Aramis chuckled mirthlessly. "I don't lie to my friends."

"Everybody lies." Those pale eyes were sad as they bore into him. "To others and to themselves."

Aramis couldn't resist a shudder at the words, at the look in Alec's eyes. Damn the kid and damn the night Aramis had told him everything about that moment of weakness at the monastery and the lie he's been living ever since. And damn the lie he's been telling himself ever since that first day they all met Alexandre Reynaud. What he felt toward the boy _was_ unnatural. It wasn't normal. And it wouldn't pass. It was getting stronger with each passing day.

"You're no different."

Aramis scowled. "Yes, I'm no different. I'm a bastard through and through, so find someone else to help you. There are plenty of musketeers."

As the office door slammed behind him, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan slowly stood, their gazes meeting.

"It's one for all and all for one with everything," Athos said. "Aramis is one of those all."

Tréville nodded, motioning them out of his office.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan murmured as he walked past Alec.

.

.

So was she. Sorry for deceiving them, sorry for doubting them, sorry for not telling them sooner. But she wasn't sorry for wanting to save her brother.

Squaring her shoulders, Alec looked at Tréville who sighed. "I won't order them to go."

"I know, sir. I understand." She'd deceived him as well. "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry for everything that happened. Maybe I would change something, if I could do it all over again. I'd tell the truth."

Another sigh. "It would've been appreciated. I'll tell the others—"

"No." It came out too forcefully, so she gentled her voice. "This is personal, it's not official royal business. I don't want anyone to die because you ordered them to come with me."

"So you'll go alone?"

"Alone is how I started, sir." She donned her hat. "Thank you for everything, Captain Tréville. I wish you all the best, and hope you won't think less of Reynaud. He only deceived you, because I begged him to."

His voice stopped her before she could open the door. "Why would you risk your life for someone you barely know?"

"Musketeers do it all the time."


	6. Chapter 5

Aramis has been nursing the same drink for the past two hours. It has lost its taste after only a sip. The scene in Tréville's office has been replaying on a loop in his head, and he knew there was something he's missed. There'd been something off, something was still missing from the big picture. Alec was still hiding something. The fact he'd joined their ranks in order to save an English diplomat wasn't the only secret the boy was keeping. He'd seen it in his eyes, just a flash when he'd told him he didn't lie to his friends.

And he'd seen the pain in those pale eyes when he'd told him he wouldn't help him.

Aramis winced at the memory. What had gotten into him to say that? The boy had gone to the line more than once for them, he'd protected the Queen and the Dauphin. He'd helped them more than they could've expected in these past few weeks, watched their backs, fought alongside them. He kept their secrets—Aramis knew he hadn't been the only one spilling his soul out to the boy—he didn't judge.

Hell, he owed Alec his life. The boy had almost gotten shot the other day, when he'd pushed Aramis out of a bullet's path. His friends had saved his life before, and he'd always have their backs. Alec had saved his life, and how did Aramis repay him?

By stabbing him in the back.

No matter what feelings the boy invoked deep inside him, no matter the turmoil he's been in for weeks, he should've stuck by the kid. He should've listened to reason, thought with his head, not with his ego. He should've offered to help Alec in his quest.

He smirked. It's what musketeers did best. Engage in foolish quests, putting their necks on the line for complete strangers. It was even easier to do when it came to friends. There weren't four of them anymore. There were five. And it should be "one for all and all for one" all the way. No matter what.

When he saw the other three enter the tavern, Aramis knew the motto had applied this time as well. Only not in the good way, the right way. Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan had decided if he wasn't in for the quest, they wouldn't be as well. And because they were also smarter than him at the moment, and, unlike him, were thinking straight, he also knew they'd come to change his mind.

One for all. And all for one.

Aramis fought a grin, as he motioned his three friends to sit. Tomorrow morning they'd find Alec, apologize, and ride with him to Château de Roquetaillade.

.

.

Their mood was much improved a few hours later, after imbibing heavily from the owner's best selection of wine, and enjoying the supple company of the wenches. Although in the end all the women had flocked only around Porthos. D'Artagnan was still nursing a broken heart due to Constance Bonacieux, Athos was being Athos—all dark and broody, keeping everybody at a distance, and him...No matter how much he wanted to, there was no appeal. There hadn't been in while. In the beginning, he'd tried to exorcise his demon—yes, singular—with the pleasures of the flesh, to no avail. He felt even worse afterward. It felt like betrayal.

It had worked before, after that interlude at the monastery, after learning of the Queen's pregnancy, he could forget for a while in the arms of a willing woman. And those periods of forgetfulness have grown longer and longer...But it didn't work this time, nothing did. Nothing could make him forget this disgusting and unnatural desire deep inside.

He was thankful to Tréville for walking into the tavern, and coming to stand by their table.

"Before you say anything, sir," Athos lifted his tankard. "Let us inform you, we'll go with young Reynaud to Roquetaillade."

Tréville scowled. "You might want to sober up quickly, then, and hope to catch up with him before he gets into trouble."

Aramis' head was instantly clear. "What do you mean, sir?"

"He rode toward Bordeaux a few hours ago."

"Who's with him?"

"His horse."

Aramis shot to his feet. "He's alone?! You let him go alone?!"

"He wouldn't be alone if you didn't hold a grudge," Tréville growled. "You'll have to explain yourself, Aramis, but let's postpone that discussion until you all return. Alive. And in one piece."

"Why didn't you send others with him?" Athos looked sober as well.

"Because he said he didn't want anyone following orders to die for a personal mission." Tréville shrugged. "And I knew you'd change your mind. I just didn't know it would take me this long to find you." He looked around. "You always seem to find a tavern as far off the beaten path as possible."

Aramis joined Athos in an exaggerated eye-roll, then inclined his head toward Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Shall we?"

.

.

They were mounting their horses, when Tréville joined them, his eyes inspecting them. " _Bon courage_ , gentlemen. Remember, come back in one piece. All of you. I can't afford to replace you."

He watched them ride away, listened to the pounding of the horses' hooves, and murmured. " _Un pour tous, tous pour un._ "


	7. Chapter 6

Alec was riding through the woods, contemplating the next step of her plan. The fact was, she didn't have one. At least not one involving just her. Despite what she'd told Tréville, she'd always planned to have help in finding rescuing Robert. It was a fool's endeavour to attempt this on her own. She didn't know the castle of Roquetaillade, she didn't know the surrounding area...

So what was she doing, riding alone, in the middle of the night, toward Bordeaux if she knew she had no hope in succeeding? Because she had to try. She had to do something.

She wished the others were with her. For company, for backup, for taking her mind off the mission. But it wasn't to be. They were back in Paris, probably already forgetting about a lad called Alexandre Reynaud.

Not that she blamed them. The situation was entirely her fault. She should've told them the truth, or at least come as close to the truth as she could. Yet she hadn't. Not even after, rather quickly, determining, King Louis had nothing to do with her brother's disappearance. The King had absolutely no clue about a diplomatic emissary from England.

It hadn't been the King that had issued an invitation to the court of England to send negotiators for the peace treaty. Louis had no idea about any peace treaty with England, or anyone else for that matter. That had become painfully clear to Alec. So if it hadn't been King Louis to lure Robert to France, it had to be the Cardinal. For reasons yet unknown, one of them to prevent any kind of deal from being signed. She feared the other reason was war. What better way to ignite a war with a country than by making a diplomatic emissary disappear? And reappear later when they were no longer breathing?

She could've told the truth about why she'd joined the musketeers then, but she hadn't. Because she'd feared Tréville might kick her out of the corps, but most of all she'd feared the others' reaction. She'd envisioned something akin to what had happened earlier. It would've been milder, she was sure, if she'd come clean earlier. But that was hindsight speaking.

Alec sighed. It's been less than half a day, and she missed them already. The easy camaraderie between them, a camaraderie they've included her in. The banter, the laughter, the shared stories, the utter devotion to one another as friends and brothers in arms. They were willing to die for one another if need arose, and they were willing to live for one another. She'd only spend a few weeks in their company, but it had become quickly apparent that it was the "living for one another" that was keeping the four so united.

No matter what hardship life threw at them, neither would succumb, because they had each other, they had to keep each other sane. All were looking up to their leader apparent, Athos with his brooding, taciturn nature that hid so much pain from his past life. Yet a spark still lived inside him thanks to his friends, a spark that kept him going. He would be the first one to lay down his life if it meant their survival. Although not much older than Aramis and Porthos, Athos was the one everyone went for advice, Athos was the one who knew the most about each of them. Athos, who has become quite a father figure for the youngest of the four, d'Artagnan.

The young Gascon had been the easiest to figure out for Alec. He was still young enough to keep a cloak of youthful optimism surrounding him, still unspoiled by the harshness of life, no matter what he's been through since joining the musketeers. He still held the conviction he could make a difference, that he would make a difference alongside his friends. Alec shook her head. He would learn soon enough the only people who made a difference were the ones with money and power. And they made a difference only when and if it suited them. Once d'Artagnan realized that, it would change him, as it had changed Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

Alec smiled. Porthos was also quite an open book. There were no tragedies in his past life as in Athos', but there was weariness in his eyes that spoke of the fact, he'd realized what d'Artagnan still failed to. No matter what they did, no matter how many times they bled, how many of them lost their lives, they wouldn't make much of a difference. Porthos knew that was his lot in life, and he'd accepted it. He lived his life to the fullest, each day as if it was his last, enjoying all that's been given him. Despite the weariness and jaded acceptance of what could never be changed, he had a _joie de vivre_ , the other three lacked.

D'Artagnan because he was still too young, Athos because of his past, and Aramis...Alec's smile disappeared.

Aramis was the most mysterious of them all. One would think a carefree personality who could glimpse a touch of humour in everything, who could lighten up even the gloomiest mood with a glib retort, would be easy to read...Not when it was all a mask. It was what had probably drawn Alec to him in the first place. The mask. She's always loved mysteries, uncovering layer upon layer to get to the truth. She wanted to uncover what he hid behind that mask of his. She wanted to get to know the man who never looked away from her gaze.

She'd been drawn to him like moth to a flame, and like any moth she'd gotten burned. Because once she looked beneath the mask he presented to the world, she was unable to look away. Although at the core, all four of them were rather similar in their beliefs, honour, and steadfast loyalty, it was Aramis that's captured her. That inspired feelings inside her, she'd never felt before. She hadn't known what those feelings were, until the day someone took a shot at him. It's probably happened before, and will most likely happen again, so he hadn't seemed much perturbed about the occurrence.

Unlike her.

As she heard the hammer cock, as she glimpsed the muzzle of the pistol pointed at Aramis, images of him—smiling, thinking, laughing, angry, fighting alongside his friends, alongside her, walking down the cobbled streets, holding a baby in his arms—flashed before her eyes, followed by images of his broken and bloodied body lying in front of her, of a life without him in it. It hit her like a lightning bolt, she loved him. She loved Aramis. Not as she loved her brother, not as a friend, as she loved the other three musketeers. She loved him as a man. She loved him as a woman loved a man.

Her heart hammering in her chest in fear she might be too late, she'd pushed him out of the path of the bullet. She hasn't been the same since, their relationship hasn't been the same since. How did someone go back to the way thing were before after a revelation like this. She's spent her life pretending to be something she was not, yet she couldn't pretend things were the same between her and Aramis. He knew it, too. Or at least had felt something had changed, because he'd kept looking at her strangely, he'd appeared angry whenever she was near, and things had grown even more strained a few nights later, when she'd followed him to a tavern, suspecting what might be between him and the Queen, knowing it would hurt, yet wanting to know the truth nonetheless.

He'd never looked away from her eyes that night when he'd told her everything. She wished he had. She wished she'd been able to look away as well. Instead she sat there, looking at him, listening to his voice, forcing herself not to betray anything, as her heart slowly broke. The Dauphin was his son, born out of a moment of weakness and passion when they'd all thought they would die. There was nothing between him and Queen Anne anymore, there shouldn't and couldn't be, but it didn't matter. What mattered, what mattered to _her_ , was the fact Aramis loved the Queen. Not only as a musketeer sworn to protect her, but as a man. He loved the Queen the way Alexandra loved Aramis.

Tears threatened to flood her eyes, but she fought them back, as she'd always done. Tears never solved anything. As didn't wishes and hopes. Nothing would come of her tears, nothing would come of her wishes and hopes. Aramis wasn't for her, his heart would never belong to her.

Steeling her heart, and her resolve, Alec straightened in the saddle. Tears and wishes might not solve anything, but actions did. She'd saved the life of one man she loved, now it was time to do the same for the other. The one who was hers, the one who did love her back.

Contemplating the problem at hand, she didn't notice the men flanking the street until it was too late.

.

.

Aramis brought his horse to a halt. He's heard something. What was it? The other three were still riding behind him. He couldn't hear anything over the thundering of their horses' hooves. When they stopped beside him, Athos opened his mouth to enquire as to the reason for the stop, but there was no need.

The clash of steel against steel echoed in the silence of the night.

Aramis rammed his spurs into the horse's flanks, and took off, the others close behind him. There was only one reason for a sword fight on a country road in the middle of the night. Ambush!

The sound of clashing steel became stronger as they approached the bend in the road. So did the grunts and curses. They dismounted, and took a shortcut through the forest.

The sight that greeted them brought a proud smile on Aramis' face, and a fearful squeezing around his heart. Six men in black gear surrounded a lone, leather-clad figure, swords drawn, sneers on their faces. Sneers that failed to mask their apprehension.

Which was understandable under the circumstances, since an outnumbered Alec Reynaud meant a vicious Alec Reynaud. Aramis and his three friends had learned that the first day. The boy parried and thrust, kicked, and swung, used elbows and knees freely and abundantly. He never stood still, constantly circling, never offering more than a flimsy opportunity of attack to the men surrounding him.

Aramis' smile grew. The sight was magnificent. A tiny, lithe figure moving like a wraith, his movements almost dance-like, mesmerizing, as he kept his attackers at bay. Alec was magnificent. He was also getting tired. And that always spelled trouble.

He drew his sword, saw his friends do the same, and stepped onto the path. "Six against one? That's hardly fair."

Alec deflected a sword-swing, the blade grazing his shoulder pad. "I'm rather busy, right now. Go away."

Aramis chuckled. "Why should you have all the fun?"

Alec slammed his elbow into the face of the man behind him. "Because they attacked _me_."

"Don't you have better things to do than fight six idiots in the middle of nowhere?" Aramis ignored Athos' grunt, he was having fun. Although he suspected his friends were probably rolling their eyes. Yet none made a move, so he guessed they were all enjoying the show.

Alec ducked, pivoted. "Apparently having a _conversation_ with an idiot in the middle of nowhere," he panted dryly.

Instead of chuckling again, Aramis sprung forward, parrying a thrust directed at Alec's neck with his own sword. The other three joined the fray. It was time to finish this.

.

.

It hadn't taken long. It took even less to search the bodies, and discover they were members of the Red Guard.

"Either these went rogue, or Richelieu knows," Athos said, brushing a speck of dirt from his doublet.

"How could he possibly know?" Porthos enquired.

Athos shrugged. "You know he has spies everywhere."

"Not among the musketeers," d'Artagnan protested.

"And why not? No one is immune to money and power," Aramis corrected. "Or maybe he just suspects and doesn't want to take any chances."

"It doesn't matter," Alec said, wiping the blade of his sword against his breeches. "Thank you for your help, now you can go back."

Aramis glared. "Go back?! Who do you take us for?"

Alec simply levelled his icy glare at him, and Aramis felt a blush warm the back of his neck. "Right." He cleared his throat. "I might be a bastard, but I don't abandon friends." He looked at the other three who nodded. "I'm afraid you're stuck with us, kid."

"What if I don't want to be stuck with you, grandpa?"

 _Grandpa?_ Aramis gritted his teeth, contemplating turning the boy over his knee. And the thought shouldn't be a pleasurable one. "Tough," he snapped. "We're coming with you."

"Following Tréville's orders?"

Athos placed his hand on the boy's shoulders. "Sometimes following your heart works just as well." He took two steps back, presented his sword, point down.

Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis followed suit, placing their blades on top of Athos'. Aramis met Alec's gaze and arched his eyebrow.

A heartbeat passed. Another. And another. Then Alec huffed, rolled his eyes, and placed his sword on top of the others. "I guess that makes us all idiots."

Athos nodded. "One for all and all for one. United we stand, divided we fall."


	8. Chapter 7

In order to, if Richelieu did indeed only suspect where they were going and why, throw him off his scent, the five musketeers decided to take the longer route to Roquetaillade. Instead of following the route to Limoges, they turned back, to Orléans, and around toward Dijon, intending to circle through Lyon and Toulouse. Although the time was of the essence, and Robert's was running out, Alec knew Athos had been right in proposing his plan of action. They needed to make everyone believe they didn't have a specific goal in mind, just roaming the country doing inspections in smaller garrisons. It was taking longer than it should have under different circumstances as they rode slower, and stopped more often.

And Alec was slowly losing her mind. With worry for her brother, and with spending so much time in the company of the four musketeers. So far, back in Paris, under Tréville's watch, they'd spend only their days together, guarding the King and Queen, involving in skirmishes with criminals and Red Guard alike. The nights had been her own, spent in the privacy of her tiny, yet blessedly lonesome quarters at the garrison.

She's been longing for that cramped room for the past four days. There was no privacy on the road, not in taverns, and especially not while camping in the countryside, like they did tonight. She couldn't take off her clothes, she couldn't unbind her breasts despite the fact the bindings had bitten into her skin, judging by the constant chafing pain in her sides, she couldn't wash off the grime of the road, except by splashing a few handfuls of water into her face. She was damn envious of the other four for their ability to disrobe down to their braies—thank God, they never got any further—and jump into the nearest stream.

Then there were the stares. Curious stares because she never disrobed, never joined them for a swim, almost always averted her eyes or disappeared when they bathed. Almost, because she wasn't blind, and they were very excellent specimen of male beauty. One in particular. The same one that's also been giving her stares. Not too much curious, as to...God only knew. Whenever she looked at Aramis, there was a strange expression on his face, half-pain, half-anger. As if he was constipated or something. Well, if he was, it certainly wasn't her fault.

She was poking at the fire, wishing he'd look at her differently, but knew he never would—he thought she was a man, after all, when the four joined her in their little camp. All clean and fresh. Bastards.

"I don't know about you," Aramis said, dropping his doublet onto his saddle, and started tying the strings of his shirt, leaving Alec staring at his chest with longing, wishing he'd leave the shirt undone. He had a very nice chest. "But I'm hungry. And I'm not in the mood for anything you'd cook."

"A farmer recommended we visit the tavern in Gaillac. Their _cassoulet_ is supposedly the best in France."

Aramis frowned down at her. "What farmer?"

"The one who passed me on the road with his cart."

His frown deepened. "I didn't see any farmer. Or his cart."

"That's because you four were all frolicking in the lake."

They all looked offended.

"Musketeers don't frolic," Porthos groused.

"And it's more of a pond," Athos corrected.

Alec rolled her eyes. "Fine. The farmer passed me on the road while the four of you were relaxing your achy muscles in the pond."

Aramis shrugged. "Don't get all prissy, boy. You could've been relaxing your muscles right alongside us."

She shot to her feet. "I don't get _prissy_. And my muscles are just fine, compared to yours, _grandpa_."

.

.

Athos stepped between them before Aramis could succumb to the urge to grab the kid and throw him into the pond. He could read it in his eyes, so Athos thought it best to diffuse the situation.

"Why don't you two go ahead and see if they're still serving the _cassoulet_. We," he motioned to him, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, will be right behind you."

As the two mounted their horses and rode toward the village in sullen silence, Porthos nudged him with his elbow. "We could've easily gone along with them. Why the head start?"

Athos sighed and shook his head. "Something's not right between them. Hasn't been from the start. And it's getting worse. We better give them an hour, hope they work it out."

Because if they didn't, whatever was bothering Aramis and Alec might prove to be a liability. And they couldn't afford one now. The two better settle whatever was wrong, or he'd punch both of them until they wished he'd kicked them instead.

.

.

They've been sitting in silence at the table for almost an hour and there was still no sign of the other three. Alec resisted the urge to curse. And fidget. The not-fidgeting part was proving to be much more difficult than the not-cursing one. Because she itched everywhere. She was dusty, sweaty, itching...And getting crankier by the minute, glaring at Aramis' head as he stared down at his barely-touched tankard.

She's had enough. "What is your problem?"

He slowly lifted his head, looked somewhere over her shoulder. "Excuse me?"

"I asked what your problem was."

A nonchalant shrug. "I don't have a problem."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. And I'm the Virgin Mary."

He glared at her. "Don't go invoking the Mother of God's name in vain, boy."

"I'll do whatever I please, _grandpa_."

"Don't call me grandpa," he hissed between clenched teeth.

She had an epiphany. "So that is your problem. Me calling you grandpa." It was her turn to shrug. "Then stop calling me a boy."

There was a flash of...something in his eyes. "You _are_ a boy."

She squeezed her fingers into a fist. "I'm four and twenty, _grandpa_."

"I'm only thirteen years older than you," Aramis snapped.

"And that's why I don't call you daddy." She snapped her mouth shut the moment the words were out of it. Damn it, someone could call him that. _Should_ call him that. Damn her, her big mouth, and her bruised heart.

There was pain in his eyes when he glared at her, and he opened his mouth, but stiffened, as a buxom blonde sat ran her fingers down his arm. "Hello, handsome. Do you mind if I join you?"

The blonde plopped down on the bench beside him, looked at him through her eyelashes, and smiled at him. Since she still had all her teeth, at least those visible, Alec deduced she was younger than she looked, with her face all painted up. Then she looked at Aramis and the pained expression on his face almost made her chuckle. He looked like he was being quartered, and she didn't know why. The girl looked quite lovely.

She barely managed to swallow her jealousy, when another buxom girl, this one black-haired, and a little older than the first, slid into her lap. "Aren't you a gorgeous fellow," she cooed, running her finger down her throat. "Looking good enough to eat."

Alec gently clasped her wrist as the inquisitive fingers threatened to dip under the collar of her shirt. "I'm not looking for company, tonight," she said quietly, gently. "You'd better try your luck elsewhere. But thank you for honouring me with the offer."

She pouted, but when she saw Alec was serious, smiled. "You are a true gentleman, aren't you? Whoever you're pining after, I hope she's worth it." She snuck a quick kiss on the lips, and went in search of other prey.

"Remove your hands off my person," Aramis snapped at the blonde, "and go look elsewhere. There's nothing for you here."

When the blonde stomped away in a snit, Alec cleared her throat. "You could've gone with her, you know. I can wait for the others, I'm sure they'll understand."

"Why didn't _you_ take the offer?"

Alec silently stared at her companion across the table. She knew why he didn't go with the blonde. Or the black-haired one. Or all the others before them in all the taverns before this one. She knew, and her heart hurt at the truth.

"For the same reason you didn't."

Aramis steepled his fingers. "And what reason is that?"

"Because we're both in love with a person who doesn't return our feelings."

Aramis frowned. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, really." Alec chuckled mirthlessly. "Trust me, I know how unrequited love looks like." She waved her finger in front of his face. "Just like that."

He shot to his feet. "You don't know what you're talking about," he repeated.

Alec also stood. "I know exactly what I'm talking about, it's you that's in denial." The pitch of her voice has changed, but she didn't care. "You think she loves you, you think that because you're the father—"

He was around the table in a blink of an eye, grabbed her upper arm. "Shut up," he snarled, leaning over her.

She wouldn't be intimidated. "I won't shut up, you bloody idiot. If you refuse to see the truth, it doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You're deluding yourself that she loves you, but she doesn't."

"Don't push me," he growled, their noses almost touching.

She _did_ push him. Away from her as she continued glaring up at him, but he didn't budge. "She doesn't love you, you fool. She just used you. It didn't even have to be you, just the closest available cock would've sufficed."

One moment she was standing upright, his hand clasped bruisingly around her upper arm, and the other she was sprawled on the dirt floor, her lip split, and hurting. But not as much as her heart. He'd hit her. Aramis had hit her, Aramis had hit a friend. He'd chosen a lie, an illusion over a friend. He'd chosen a lie, an illusion over her. In her head, she'd known he could never possibly love her, she'd deceived him, lied to him, but in her foolish, love-struck heart she had hoped. Hoped that the love he held for Queen Anne was more a love for an ideal, for a what-if, that it was an infatuation, easily replaced.

No more. She'd finally gotten the push she needed to forgo her foolish hopes. There was no more space in his heart. No matter how much it hurt, she finally accepted it.

She closed her eyes for a second, centring herself, steeling her heart, then gazed back at him. She knew what he'd see. He'd see the haughty, nothing-can-touch-me mask she'd perfected for those occasions she had to appear before King James and his court. She wiped the blood off her lip with the back of her hand, and stood. Aramis looked as if he was waiting for her to hit him back, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. However he made her feel didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was her brother.

She calmly looked at him. "The first one is free," she said icily. "Next time you hit me, you better hope you knock me unconscious." Then she turned, and calmly strolled out of the tavern.

.

.

"So much for them working it out," Porthos muttered in the shadows by the door.

Athos sighed deeply, as he stared at Aramis, who stood ramrod stiff in the middle of the tavern, looking right past them, through the door into the night in which Alec Reynaud had disappeared. His friend's eyes were troubled, sad, and filled with a deep, soul-rendering pain. The eyes of a man in love with a woman he could never have.

"What do we do now?" d'Artagnan whispered.

He should be worried about Alec riding off by himself, but the kid wasn't stupid, he needed their help. They just had to let him cool his heels for tonight. Tomorrow they'll...Think of something. He was fresh out of ideas how to deal with the mess Aramis and Alec have created tonight. As far as Aramis was concerned, Athos figured the best course of action was getting his friend blind drunk. It had worked before.


	9. Chapter 8

It worked this time as well. But only on the other three. Aramis has remained stone-cold sober, staring straight down into his untouched drink. He couldn't erase the look in Alec's eyes from his mind. He couldn't erase the image of Alec lying sprawled on the floor, his lip bleeding because Aramis had struck him. He couldn't erase the feeling in his gut that the kid would never forgive him for the slight. Why should he? Aramis couldn't forgive himself for having struck a friend.

He pushed himself up, but Athos grabbed his arm. "What are you doing?"

The alertness in his friend's eyes, and the clearness of his speech told Aramis Athos was pretending to be deeper into his drink than he truly was. "I'm going back."

Athos shook his head. "Not a good idea. Give the kid some time to cool off."

"I need to apologize. And it can't wait."

Athos shrugged. "I'll make sure to bring flowers to your grave every year." He looked at the other two. "We'll stay a little longer, allow Alec plenty of time to dispose of your body."

Aramis grinned, "Thank you for the vote of confidence," and strolled toward the tavern door.

"You should've thanked me for the flowers!" Athos called after him.

.

.

Alec rolled over on her pallet by the dying embers of the fire. She couldn't sleep. The night was too fragrant with the smell of freshly cut grass, the crickets sang too loud, and the almost-full moon was too bright in the clear, starry sky. Her restlessness had nothing to do with what had transpired at the tavern, nothing to do with the ache in her head. And heart.

She rolled over again, grimaced as the ripe aroma of dried sweat rose to her nose. Combined with the smell of horse, lived-in leather, and four-days-worth of grime, made for quite a stink. She sat up, and looked around, listened intently. No one was approaching, the other probably making merry in the tavern now that the whelp was away. They probably wouldn't return before morning.

Which gave her the perfect opportunity to take a much-needed dunk in the pond.

She jumped to her feet, grabbed her bag, and marched toward the pond, humming under her breath.

.

.

Aramis slowed his horse to a walk as they neared their camp. It's been a while, Alec was probably asleep already, and he didn't want to wake him. The apology could wait until morning. He dismounted, tied the horse to a low-hanging tree branch, and strode quietly into the circle of their encampment. The fire has almost died, only an ember or two still glowed in the small circle of stones, but the moon offered ample illumination. Aramis frowned. The kid wasn't sleeping. The kid wasn't in the camp.

If it weren't for the fact Alec's horse was tied to the same tree as Aramis', he'd think the boy had left in a snit. He hadn't, unless he's decided to do it on foot, so where was he?

Aramis grinned as he noticed the kid's bag was missing. Alec was taking a dip in the pond. So much for not having achy muscles.

He had no intention of following the kid, he'd simply wait for him in the camp...But he followed the path of trodden grass toward the lake. He slowed as he heard the splashes, he slowed even more, swallowing heavily, as he heard the sigh of relief. A sigh he knew well, he'd heard it before. It always made him hard when it fell off a woman's lips after he'd kissed them. But he's never been as hard as he was now, listening to Alec Reynaud—a _man_!—sighing contentedly somewhere behind the reeds enveloping the bank of the pond.

He should leave now, return to the fire, calm his roaring blood down, and think of what to say in apology, not of watching a boy bathe.

" _Merde!_ " he whispered viciously, and stepped closer.

His eyes widened at the clothing meticulously arranged on the fallen tree the farmers have probably placed on the part of the bank that wasn't covered with reeds, and thus only part approachable by foot. He'd known the boy was a bit of a stickler for order, everything had to be in its right place—readily available, Alec always reminded them. But this arrangement was a tad too orderly, even for the military.

Boots were carefully leaned by the side of the trunk so they stood upright, stockings perfectly lined up. The doublet was precisely draped over the trunk, so were the breaches, not a line out of place. A fresh shirt was folded beside a fresh pair of braes, and a swath of white cloth. Aramis frowned. It didn't look like a towel so what was the cloth for?

A splash made him look toward the pond, but for the small perturbation in the middle of it, it appeared empty. Then the boy's head emerged from below the surface, the moonlight making it look like pearls danced in his hair. Aramis frowned as the boy's entire face became visible above the water. He'd shaved and he looked even younger, prettier. Aramis swallowed past the lump in his throat. Damn it, why did the boy affect him so?

Alec swam leisurely toward the bank, where the pond was shallower, and, touching the ground, stood, the water lapping his stomach. Still hidden in the shadows of the reeds, Aramis' jaw dropped.

Dark, beautifully arched eyebrows crowned a pair of currently down-turned eyes, lids at half mast, thick eyelashes fanning the high cheekbones. A small nose with a slightly-upturned tip, a mouth begged to be kissed with a fuller lower lip made to be bitten into, and a proud chin, completed the masterpiece of an intriguing, beguiling face. Water-slicked dark hair stuck to the long, elegant neck rivulets running over delicate shoulders, down the mouth-watering dimple at the base of the throat, and lower over perfectly formed breasts, glistening like jewels on rosy nipples.

The boy wasn't a boy. He was a _she_! Alec, their friend, their travel companion, the man that's been making Aramis' life a living hell, the man he's been lusting after— yes, now he could admit it—almost from the moment he's met him, wasn't a _he_. Alec was a woman!

Aramis swallowed. Anger and betrayal at being duped, at being deceived, at being made to think whatever he was feeling was unnatural, at having lived each day of the past few weeks feeling as if his body was wracked through blazing coals, mixed with a desire and craving so potent, so desperate it nearly brought him to his knees.

She lifted her arms to squeeze the water out of her hair, the move lifting her breasts, and he almost swallowed his tongue.

Deciding to deal with the anger and betrayal later, he gritted his teeth against the growing ache in his groin, and stepped out of the shadows.

"Hello, _Alec_ ," he drawled, receiving the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen. A muted growl emerged from deep in his throat as he saw her nipples tighten. Then she shrieked, and dove back under the surface.

Aramis grinned, and crossed his arms over his chest. He could wait.


	10. Chapter 9

A Musketeer's Heart - Chapter Nine

 _Shit! Shit! Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit..._

Of course he had to be the one to return to camp, of course he had to be the one to follow her to the pond, of course he had to be the one to see her bathe, of course he had to be the one to discover her deception.

Alexandra was running out of breath, and she knew, she _knew_ , that when she resurfaced, Aramis would still be there, waiting on the bank. He'd demand an explanation, demand she tell everybody, then Athos would send her back to Paris, and Robert would be on his own.

She couldn't allow that! No matter what happened, Aramis couldn't tell a soul. The problem was, she had no idea how to convince him to keep his beautiful mouth shut.

She slowly re-emerged, peeking cautiously. Yes, he was still there, a grin firmly in place. Bastard! She lifted her face out of the water, keeping the tip of the chin under the surface. "Will you tell the others?"

His grin dissolved and he stared at her as if she was a puzzle. She guessed that to him she was. "I should." He shrugged. " _You_ should."

She felt a lump form in her throat. "You'll send me back."

"Naturally. This is no place for a woman."

She rolled her eyes. "So far it didn't bother anyone."

"Because we didn't know," he said, patiently as if explaining to a child.

"Only you know. No one else needs to."

Aramis smiled. "But they will, because you will tell them."

Alexandra sighed. "Yes, I will, after we rescue the Englishman."

His eyes narrowed. "It's dangerous."

"I know it's dangerous," she snapped. "Why do you think I wanted you to tag along? I'm not stupid!"

He cocked his head and looked at her as if he begged to differ.

She closed her eyes briefly. "Look, Aramis, I've come too far to be sent away. Just keep the secret until we're away from Roquetaillade, then I'll tell everybody the truth and you'll never see me again." It shouldn't hurt to say it, but it did.

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the disguise? Why pretend to be a man? Wasn't there anyone else who could've come instead of you?"

"No," she answered simply.

"The English—"

"They'd forsaken him. The peace treaty is looked at with contempt on the other side of the Channel as well."

He sighed, and she knew he understood. Robert was an easily-replaceable asset, collateral damage.

"Who taught you how to fence? How to fight?"

"I've been learning since I was six," she explained. "I've had many teachers throughout the years. My father, my brother, Sebastien...A girl needs to know how to defend herself."

His visage darkened, questions of why she would feel the need to defend herself flitting through his eyes. She hoped he wouldn't ask, she didn't want to lie.

"Alec—" He shook his head. "What is your real name?"

She stared at him, thinking this was the most civilized conversation they've had so far. Yes, it felt like an interrogation while she was naked in a pond in the middle of nowhere, but there was no bite to his words, no mocking, no anger in his eyes.

"Alexandra," she replied.

He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes, and she felt something akin to a prick in the vicinity of her heart. He's never smiled like that at her before.

"Which explains Alec. Alexandra suits you more."

His voice, the way he said her name, did all kinds of things to her insides, and she shivered. She cleared her throat. She needed to get out of the water, it was getting cold. "So, do we have an accord?"

His head cocked to the side, he frowned. "What accord?"

"You won't say anything until we rescue the Englishman."

"What do I get in exchange?" he asked with a grin, and she rolled her eyes. It hadn't taken him long.

"How about I let you live?"

He nodded. "Seems fair."

"Good. Now go away."

"Why?" he asked, his eyes wide.

"I need to get out."

Another grin, this one even wider than the first. "By all means, come out."

Alexandra glared. "Go away."

He sighed. "I've seen a naked woman before. You won't shock me." He shrugged. "Besides, we need to talk."

"We've talked. Go. Away."

"No." Aramis shook his head. "I still need to apologize."

"Apology accepted. Go away."

"Don't you want to know, what I need to apologize for?"

"It doesn't matter. I've accepted it already. Go the hell away!"

He tsked. "That's not an appropriate language for a lady. And I need to look the person I'm apologizing to in the eye. It's a quirk of mine. So I'll wait for you to come out."

Alexandra wished she had something heavy and pointy in hand so she could hurl it at him. "You can apologize for whatever you want to apologize later. At the camp."

He shook his head. "No, it has to be now, when it's fresh."

"Aramis," she groaned, turning her eyes skyward.

"Alexandra," he drawled in response.

She looked back at him, her eyes widening as she saw him unsnap his doublet. He shrugged out of it, lifted his arm to the back of his neck, and pulled off his shirt in one single tug.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her breath becoming choppy as his hands fell to the fastening of his breeches.

"What does it look like?" he asked, hopping a little to pull off his boots. "If you don't want to come out of there, I'm joining you." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "I really need to apologize."

She forgot what she was about to say as he leaned forward to take off his breeches. Then her ability to speak fled completely as he straightened. He's chucked off his braes as well and now he stood before her completely nude. Alexandra knew propriety dictated she look away, but she couldn't. He's never seen a completely disrobed man before, and even if she had, they'd probably pale in comparison to Aramis.

She swallowed, her eyes running up and down his form, from his sculpted calves, and strong, thick thighs, over the—another, more difficult swallow—bushy thatch of hair at his groin from where his member rose, proud, and thick, and...pulsing? Up over the gentle ripples on his abdomen to his wide chest with a myriad of scars, badges of honour, to his strong arms, long-fingered hands, up over his shoulders, and strong neck, to his beautiful mouth partly-hidden in his groomed beard, over the straight nose, to his warm, brown eyes, over the waves of his hair, waves she wished she could sink her fingers into. And back down over his sculpted torso, her eyes were drawn to the junction of his thighs, where his member appeared to grow and straighten before her eyes.

She wet her lips and his pained groan made her look back up to his face. The skin across his cheekbones appeared taught, his lips were tightly compressed, and the look in his eyes...He looked like a hungry animal glimpsing his next meal.

She was unable to look away, it was as if he'd cast a spell on her...Then she realized he was getting closer, he was in the pond with her, the water already reaching his thighs. And he didn't stop, wading deeper and deeper, until he almost reached her.

She finally gathered her wits, and lunged backwards, but he grabbed her wrist, pulling her to a halt, and forcing her to stand on the bottom to keep her balance. Unfortunately the water wasn't deep enough, so she had to cover her breasts with her free arm.

He frowned down at the arm she used to cover herself, and took two steps forward. In order to keep as much distance as possible with him still retaining the possession of her wrist, Alexandra took two steps back. And the water reached her clavicle. Startled, she looked up at him, and he merely shrugged.

"You looked uncomfortable."

And he tried to spare her further discomfort. Wasn't that kind of him? She shook the hand, he still held. "Let me go."

"No," he said quietly. "We need to talk. I need to apologize." He lifted his other hand, touched the corner of her lips gently with the tip of his finger. "I shouldn't have hit you."

She looked away, she couldn't look at him anymore. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," he insisted. "I've treated you like shit almost from the start, and tonight was the lowest point. I apologize."

"As I said before, apology accepted." She wiggled her hand again. "Now, let me go."

"Don't you want to know, why I treated you the way I did? Don't you want to know why I hit you?"

Still staring at a point above his shoulder, she wiggled her hand once more. "I already know. Let go."

"No, you don't. Look at me."

"Let. Me. Go."

"Look at me, Alexandra," he murmured gently, deeply. "I need you to look at me."

"Fine," she snapped, and rolled her eyes. "What?" she asked, her eyes on his.

It was a mistake. The look in his eyes made her breath hitch, and her heart beat faster. She'd seen that look before. But whenever she'd caught him looking at her like that, he'd always averted his gaze before, his face distorted in a grimace of disgust. He didn't avert his eyes now, and there was no disgust on his face.

"I didn't hit you because you told me something you thought I didn't know," he whispered, holding her gaze. "I know the Queen used me. It was either that or death."

He tugged on her captive hand, and despite warning bells sounding in her head, she took a tiny step forward.

"I threw the punch because it was either that or kiss you."

Alexandra swallowed.

"The day that Tréville introduced you, you looked at me and it felt like a kick in the gut." Another gentle tug, another little step closer. "When you threw Mercier on the ground, I silently applauded, and when we fought side by side that first day, I admired your courage. And your skill."

Alexandra's chest felt like someone was sitting on it, restricting her lungs. His eyes, his words, his voice...It was getting hard to breathe.

"Then we got to know you, however little you decided to tell us," he added with a pointed glance. "We saw your willingness to make a difference, to stand beside us, to put your life on the line." Another tug, another step. "I saw you smile, I heard you laugh, and I wanted you."

Alexandra shook her head. She was hearing things. Someone like Aramis couldn't want her.

"And I felt sick for wanting you." He smirked as she glared. "I love women; I cannot be attracted to a boy." He grew serious. "But no matter how much I convinced myself, how much I tried, I couldn't shake this...longing. It made me angry, this weakness, so I took it out on you. Tonight most of all."

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because we've spent the last four days on the road together, you were always there, a constant presence. I couldn't get free of you." He cleared his throat. "Then in the tavern, when you said you knew why I rejected that girl, I snapped."

"The Queen," she said, her voice trembling.

" _You_ ," he said forcefully. "It's not the Queen that's been preventing me from bedding any of the wenches these past few weeks. I love her as my Queen, I'm proud of her courage to do whatever it takes to survive, I'm honoured she'd chosen me to be the father to her child, but I don't love her as a woman. That night at the monastery, that was a moment of weakness, of grief, I don't desire her...I don't want her as I want you."

Alexandra truly couldn't breathe. Breath hiccupped in her throat.

"You can't imagine the relief I felt when I discovered you're a woman. It turns out I'm normal after all."

The hiccups turned into chuckles.

He smiled tenderly down at her. "No other woman has made me feel the way you make me feel. You make me _yearn_ , Alexandra." He frowned as she felt herself tremble. "You're shivering."

"The water is cold," she lied.

He tugged once more on her hand, and she took one last step closer. He released her wrist, bringing his arm around her, pressed her closer, until her breasts touched his chest lightly.

"Let me warm you," he whispered, and lifted his other hand to cup her cheek.

"Aramis." She pressed her palm over his chest, pushed a little, as he leaned forward, his eyes on her mouth.

His eyes met hers. "You're more than capable of stopping me, Alexandra."

The way her name rolled off his tongue, the deep timbre of his voice like an intimate caress, the arm circling her waist, not caging her, not pulling her closer, just resting there, the callused fingers stroking her cheek...The silence of the night, the silvery glow of the moon...Or simply the fact the man she loved wanted her, even if only for tonight. Whatever it was, it kept her from pushing him away.


	11. Chapter 10

She looked at his mouth, and Aramis was lost.

With a groan, half-pain, half-gratitude, he lowered his head, and captured her lips with his. But there was no urgency, no need to rush, no need to devour. It was a slow exploration of pressure points and taste. Then she sighed, parting her lips, and he accepted the invitation, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

She was delicious. Sweet, warm, and tender as he tasted her, running his tongue alongside hers. He was no stranger to kissing, he loved kissing, he appreciated kissing, but this was different. Although she stood naked in his arms, his for the taking, he felt no rush to claim her. He wanted to take his time. He had no intention of abandoning her sweet mouth anytime soon. Her sighs were driving him insane, her wicked, little tongue made him imagine how it would feel elsewhere on his body, yet he lingered.

Long, slow, drugging kisses, interspersed with playful nibbles on her lower lip and invitations for her to follow his tongue into his mouth, while feeling her fingers clench and unclench in the hair matting his chest. Then he tilted her face upward, turned his head, and plunged deep, a prelude to what he could and would do to her body later, and she lifted her arms to circle around his neck, a moan escaping her throat.

And Aramis knew there would be no stopping tonight. Not anymore. He could've stopped before, if she'd pushed him away, but it was too late now. For both of them.

He plunged one hand into her hair, banding the other around her waist, pulling her flush to him, front to front. The feel of her breasts against his chest, the pebbled nipples, made him groan, his cock hardening to the point of pain against her soft stomach.

He needed to have her. Now. Immediately.

Tomorrow she'd be lost to him forever. He didn't delude himself that she would profess her undying love and devotion to him. Her heart lay with the Englishman they were rescuing. There was only one reason a woman cut her hair and pretended to be a man to save another. Love. She might be Reynaud's cousin, but she was this Englishman's lover. Maybe wife.

Aramis gathered a fistful of Alexandra's—such a lovely name—hair in his hand, plundering her mouth with barely restrained violence. No matter what she felt for the Englishman, she was his tonight. She was in his arms, she was kissing him. For this moment, she was his. He was determined she would remember being his.

One hand firmly in her hair, he ran the fingers of the other down her back, brushing the cleft of her bottom with one fingertip. She shivered, and he smiled against her lips. He brushed his hand over her thigh and around to the front, tangling his fingertips in the coarse curls at her mound.

She made a sound as if in protest, but he wouldn't let her speak. He nipped her lower lip until she moaned, and then deepened the kiss once more, his tongue brushing against hers, as he ran his index finger down over her curls to find the little nub above her entrance. She shuddered, and moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair.

 _Yes. Oh, yes._

He brushed his fingertip over the nubbin. Once, twice, three times, until she writhed against him, kissed him with a ferociousness that made him fear he'd spill himself before he even entered her. He inserted one finger inside her, and it was his turn to shudder. She was wet, and hot, and so tight he had to exert every ounce of control not to end it then and there.

He worked his finger in and out of her slowly, and she moaned, and pressed closer to him, her nipples leaving a trail of fire on his chest. Wanting nothing more than to plunge inside her, he tortured them both, by inserting a second finger in her, and pumped a little faster, feeling like a king, when she groaned, and plunged her tongue into his mouth.

 _Oh, God, yes._

Her hips were undulating and he knew she was close. She had to be close or he'd die tonight. He plunged his fingers deep, pressed the pad of his thumb against her nub, and she went up in flames. The walls of her channel milked his fingers the way he wished she'd milk his cock, shudders wracked her body, and the moans emerging from her throat were sweet music to his ears.

He couldn't wait. Not if he hoped to survive. He had to get inside her, he had to take her in the most complete sense of the word. He cupped her bottom in both his hands, lifted her, and impaled her in one thrust.

She released his mouth, her head thrown back, her lips parted on a silent scream, her fingers biting into his scalp. She didn't move, and who could blame her. Aramis couldn't move as well, frozen to the spot at the sensation of being buried inside her. She sheathed him like a tight glove, the feeling somewhere between pleasure and pain. He never wanted it to stop.

She finally looked at him, moisture glistening in the corners of her eyes, and moaned his name. And Aramis' muscles finally unlocked. He lifted her, then slowly impaled her again. She moaned.

He lifted her a little more, until just the tip of his cock was inside her, then slowly thrust back into her to the hilt. She locked her ankles behind his back, her arms around his neck, and moaned his name again.

"Aramis..."

It sounded like a prayer. A plea. A promise. And he felt his heart crack a little. Where has she been until now? Why couldn't he have found her sooner? Before her heart belonged to another?

"Aramis..."

He gritted his teeth at the feel of her in his arms, at the sound of her voice calling his name, at the friction of her on his cock. He couldn't wait anymore, he couldn't take it slow anymore. He had nothing left. Fingers biting into her skin, he plunged inside her over and over again, her moans keeping the rhythm of his thrusts, driving him slowly, inexorably insane.

She was so hot, so tight, so fucking perfect as she threw her head back, voicing her release to the Heavens on a keen cry. And Aramis was lost. With one last thrust he joined her, every muscle in his body drawn taught as his own climax roared through him.

Deplete of strength, he lowered them gently into the water, muttering his protest when she tried to unlock her limbs from around him. Feeling her arms tighten once more around his neck, he sighed, and buried his face against her neck.

Her name was a contented sigh, as they drifted.

.

.

Later, he wordlessly carried her ashore, dried her up, and helped her dress, kissing the welts in her skin as he bound her breasts. He helped her tie the laces on her shirt, buckle her breeches, and button her doublet, and Alexandra felt tears threaten to spill.

She never cried, she'd learned from a young age that tears didn't help, but this time, with this man, in this moment, she felt like crying. Because she knew he was saying goodbye. There would be no more nights like this, no more kisses, no more moments of passion. If only he wouldn't be so tender, if only he'd left her there and strode away.

Why did he have to be so gentle? And why didn't he say anything?

She wished he'd say something. Anything. It wasn't every night that a girl lost her virginity. It wasn't every night a girl gave herself to the man she loved in the moonlight with only stars for company. Words should be said. Questions asked. Or maybe he didn't know. Was it possible he didn't know she was, well, had been, a virgin? Maybe he _had_ known, and was just trying to diffuse the situation, pretend it didn't happen. Or maybe he didn't care.

Then why was he so gentle? Why did he have to make her want to cry?

She turned away, sniffled, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay, and picked up her false beard. But suddenly he grabbed her arm, turned her, plunged his fingers into her hair, and kissed her. A long sweep of his tongue, a hard press of his mouth, then he was gone.

Alexandra looked down at the faux beard. A few more days and it would all be over.


	12. Chapter 11

Aramis had spent the rest of the night in agony. Knowing the truth, knowing she was nearby, knowing how her body looked in the moonlight, how it felt under his arms, clenching around him...Knowing how she tasted, how she smelled, knowing the sounds she made...It was torture.

He wanted one more night with her. He knew it wouldn't be enough, but he _needed_ one more night with her. Somewhere private, where they wouldn't be disturbed. Somewhere with a bed. She deserved a bed. He wanted to see her in a bed, her limbs languidly spread on the sheets, candlelight dancing on her skin. He wanted to explore every inch of her body, taste it, feel it, until it was seared in his memory.

He's never felt such a visceral need for a woman before. All his previous liaisons have been passionate, but he's never desired another woman as he wanted Alexandra. She'd enchanted him with her eyes, her mouth, her body, the mystery surrounding her. She'd captured him, and he never wanted to get free.

He sighed. He suspected he'd never be free again.

.

.

Athos looked sideways at his friend. There was something off. Again. Aramis and Alec had apparently buried the hatchet on whatever had been bothering them before, but something else has surfaced between them last night. He hadn't known Alec long, but the kid was unusually silent, his head bowed as he rode his horse in what at first sight appeared sullen silence. But when Athos had looked closer, he could see Alec wasn't sulking. Something was bothering the lad, there was a melancholy in his eyes.

He might not have known Alec long, but he did know Aramis. And Aramis wasn't Aramis. Not today. His usually annoyingly chatty friend was subdued and quiet, his downcast eyes filled with a strange pain. If he didn't know better, Athos would've sworn his friend was suffering from a broken heart. Which was impossible since Aramis, even in his most ardent dalliances, never brought his heart into the mix. Never risked his heart to be broken.

And since neither was talking, responding to any enquiry with silence or an occasional grunt or mumble, Athos was in the dark. And being in the dark on this specific matter wasn't bothering only him. He could see Porthos and d'Artagnan were in the same predicament.

Maybe it was just the fact the final battle, so to speak, was approaching. They would reach Roquetaillade by dusk. Athos only hoped Alec and Aramis would be able to put their gloom aside long enough to infiltrate the fortress and liberate the Englishman.

.

.

"I take it you've done this before."

Athos grinned at Alec. "We're professionals at this sort of thing."

The kid didn't look convinced. "How did you manage to get this?" He nodded toward the plan of the castle.

"Porthos is an expert in extracting information from pertinent sources."

"I'm sure," Alec replied drolly. "But there could be multiple copies, different copies. How can you be sure that the tunnel is there?"

Athos shrugged. "We'll see when we get there."

Alec rolled his eyes. "Veritable professionals, you are."

Athos looked at his three friends. Each wore a matching grin. "Ah, the doubtfulness of youth. Shall we?"

The door was where it was supposed to be according to the blueprint. A heavy, oak door, hidden behind a natural wall of ivy, it was unlocked, but still quite a challenge to open. They all expected the hinges to creak, but only silence greeted them. And a warm, clammy breeze blowing through the tunnel.

"Obviously they never heard of the benefits of ventilation," Porthos muttered.

"It's a dungeon," d'Artagnan hissed.

Porthos shrugged. "A ventilated dungeon is a clean dungeon." He cleared his throat as his four companions looked at him as if he'd grown wings. "Never mind. I'll go first. If I scream come and save me."

"We were thinking more along the lines of scattering," Aramis whispered, and winced when Alec's elbow connected with his stomach. "What? Every man for himself." He grabbed the elusive elbow before receiving another blow. "Stop it."

"You stop it," Alec hissed. "He's your friend."

"I can make new friends."

"Idiot."

"Come on, you don't mean that."

Athos silently observed the exchange. There was no obvious animosity behind the thump to the stomach, or any heat behind the glare Alec bestowed on Aramis. And there certainly wasn't any animosity in Aramis' affectionate smile. Athos did a double take. The smile was indeed affectionate, and it, coupled with the tender gaze, transformed his friend's visage completely. And it made Alec blush and look away.

What was going on?

Athos shook his head. Now wasn't the time. If they wanted to do something, they should do it now. "Let's go, children," he chided, gave Porthos a little push over d'Artagnan's shoulder, and, when they all entered the tunnel, brought up the rear.

The tunnel suddenly ended at another heavy wooden door. But this one was locked, and Alec arched his brow at Athos. "As I said, veritable professionals. Now what?"

He cleared his throat. "We could try knocking."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Let's do that. Maybe they'll invite us to supper."

Porthos huffed pushed Athos away from the door, and knocked. "What?" he asked, when they all looked at him strangely again. "It's worth a try."

"Who is it?" came the enquiry from the other side.

They all exchanged bewildered looks. _Now what?_

"Ehm, it's me," Porthos growled. "Open up."

They could hear a key turning, and in front of their astonished eyes, the door slowly swung open.

The man who opened the eyes, dressed in a monk's garb, goggled. "Who—"

The question remained unfinished thanks to Athos' punch. "That was easy," he murmured, rummaging in the man's cloak for the key ring. Too easy. It either meant it was a trap, or the prisoner was already dead. But being an eternal optimist, Athos always considered the brightest option to be the most likely. Trap it was. He couldn't wait. He unsheathed his sword and walked toward the corridor that should lead to the cells, the others following him. He frowned at Aramis' hissed "Stay behind me" and turned in time to see Alec's deadly glare. What the hell was the matter with those two?

There was no time to contemplate his companions' peculiar behaviour, because the sickly stench was getting stronger. Athos closed his eyes briefly. It was the smell of death. No wonder there was no guard. They were too late. He turned toward the other four, seeing by his friends' darkened expressions that they knew. Aramis put his hand around Alec's shoulders, and the boy leaned in, breathing through his mouth as if to steady himself.

Teeth gritted, Athos walked further into the dungeon. There were five cells, holes dug into the packed soil, with bar doors. The floors were covered with dirty straw and dried excrement, the first four were empty. The last, looked to have two occupants. Neither moved, and judging by the ripeness of the stench, they wouldn't move again.

After three attempts, Athos finally located the right key, and at the sound of it scraping in the lock, one of the two immovable figures, the one slumped by the back wall, lifted its head slowly, contempt visible in the eyes glaring from between matted strands of hair. Eyes that should've appeared dull, after so much time spent in captivity, but were anything but.

Athos heard a shaky sigh behind him, and then Alec pushed him aside, rushed to the man, dropped on his knees beside him, and cupped his face.

"Robert."

He cursed. It was a woman's voice. A woman's shaky voice!

"You found me," the man whispered.

She brushed her fingers tenderly over the man's brow. "Of course I did."


	13. Chapter 12

No wonder there had been no guard. They'd left the poor bastard to die. Locked him in a cell with no food or water, and only a dead, rotting body for company. Unfortunately, they didn't count with the willpower of the man. It was sheer willpower that had kept him alive long enough for them to find him, and get him out of that stinking dungeon.

He'd been dirty, stinking, and emaciated, but he'd managed to walk out of the prison on his own two feet, and climbed on a horse under his own power. It was only after Alexandra had vaulted on the horse behind him, that the man had leaned back, exhausted. She'd quickly put her arms around him and leaned her chin on his shoulder, closing her eyes with a small sigh. And Aramis had experienced a bout of envy so visceral it felt like a hot poker passed through his insides.

They hadn't spoken a single word, not as they departed, not as they rode through the countryside, avoiding any roads or lanes. They hadn't spoken when they'd arrived at a small farm on the outskirts of Podensac owned by d'Artagnan's great aunt, and left the Englishman in the care of a quickly-fetched doctor. D'Artagnan and Porthos had left on reconnaissance, and Aramis and Athos warmed up in the kitchen.

"Did you know?" Athos asked as he lowered himself to sit at the hearth beside Aramis.

"Not until last night," he replied quietly.

"I see."

Aramis lifted his head at his friend's tone. Athos was studying him intently for a few heartbeats, then his forehead smoothed out, and understanding shone in his eyes.

"Damn it, Aramis." Athos sighed. "You've been strange since he... _she_ joined us. You could've talked to me."

Aramis gave him a sardonic smile. "And tell you what? That I was sick? That I harboured an unnatural attraction for a boy?"

Athos closed his eyes. "It's easier to share a burden."

"Look who's talking."

"I wouldn't have judged. You know that. Damn it, man, you probably weren't the only one. She makes for a pretty lad."

"Careful," Aramis warned in a low voice.

"What happened last night? How did you find out?"

"I found her bathing in the pond." He'd never look at a pond the same way.

"Jesus," Athos muttered and Aramis swallowed at the memory. "Then what?"

"I asked her why she did it? Dressed as a man. And she told me it was her only option."

"Hard to believe that," Athos retorted sceptically. "It was a very desperate move. Great lengths for...I see."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell us, Aramis? Why didn't you tell us this morning that she was a woman?"

"She asked me not to, that the ruse wouldn't last much longer."

Athos took a deep breath. "She was right about that. Then what happened?" Aramis merely looked at him and Athos cursed under his breath. "Damn it, Aramis. No wonder you looked like you've been clobbered over the head all day. What were you thinking? Are they lovers?"

Aramis shrugged.

"You didn't ask?"

"I didn't want to know."

Another curse. "Damn it, Aramis." A look heavenward, then back at his friend. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Damn it, Aramis."

D'Artagnan peeked into the kitchen. "The roads are clear, and Porthos says no one followed us. They don't yet know he escaped."

Athos nodded. "Good. Maybe they'll think he died on the road." Then looked at Aramis. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm heading back to Paris."

Athos met d'Artagnan's questioning gaze, and closed his eyes at the younger man's nod. "Paris it is."

.

.

Alexandra followed their host down into the kitchen, having been talked into eating a light supper. She kept expecting the elderly woman to ask questions, but the lady refrained. All she needed to know, she said, was that they were d'Artagnan's friends. She didn't even look askance at Alexandra's attire which still constituted her shirtsleeves, the shirt's hem falling to mid-thigh, and man's breeches and boots. She'd gotten rid of the faux beard, and her hair was unbound, brushing her shoulders. There'd been no time to think about changing, about washing...all that mattered was getting Robert comfortable.

She'd breathed a sigh of relief when the doctor had pronounced him rather healthy for the condition he was in. He was dehydrated and malnourished, but there were no indication of more serious conditions, no unhealed wounds, breaks or open sores. With the proper care, and plenty of food and fluids, Robert should be able to travel in a few days. Alexandra had no intention of extending their stay beyond that deadline. He'd be as comfortable on a ship than he was at a farm house. She'd send a message to Sebastien Reynaud first thing in the morning to arrange for anything necessary to go back to England.

Her heart squeezed.

They'd go back to England. She would leave France. She would leave...She mentally shook her head. Of course she would leave, there was nothing keeping her here, not matter what had happened. And Robert needed her, her allegiance lay with him.

As she followed the lovely owner, who'd gone to great lengths to provide for someone she didn't know, on d'Artagnan's word alone, Athos straightened from his perch by the hearth, and approached them.

"A friend of mine is a ship's captain from Bordeaux," he told her quietly. "I can send word to him, if you want."

Alexandra shook her head. "It won't be necessary. I'll contact Reynaud."

He inclined his head. "I wish you a safe journey, then." He quietly thanked d'Artagnan's great aunt, and quickly strode through the open door leading to the courtyard.

Alexandra swallowed. They were leaving. They were leaving without saying goodbye. What did she expect after deceiving them for so long? They've done what she wanted them to do. End of story.

The farm's owner clucked her tongue and glared at her. "What are you waiting for, _mademoiselle_. Don't you want to say goodbye?"

Alexandra took a deep breath through her nose, let it out through her mouth, and followed Athos. They were leading their horses out of the stable, when they saw her. Stopped. Another calming breath, that unsurprisingly worked even less than the first, and she took a few steps away from the doorway. While the other three didn't move, Aramis turned to his horse, and fiddled with the bridle.

She swallowed to dislodge the lump in her throat. He wouldn't even look at her. That said more than a hundred words could. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. And I'm sorry," she added. "For everything."

Athos looked at the other three, glared in Aramis' direction, then nodded at her. "It's what we do, _madame_."

"Still—"

"Your reasons are your own," he interrupted her. "No explanation needed."

She inclined her head, wishing Athos wouldn't be as magnanimous. He made her feel even worse.

"It's been an honour," he continued, smiled slightly as she blinked, surprised, at him. "My compliments to your teachers. And to you." He touched the brim of his hat with two fingers, turned, and mounted his horse, Porthos and d'Artagnan following suit.

She watched in silence, her fingers fisted by her sides, nails biting into her palms, as Aramis brushed his hand down his horse's mane, wishing for him to turn. To say goodbye. To look at her one last time. Her heart plummeted as he snarled a curse, took off his hat, and turned.

Expression determined, he reached her in two strides, pulled her close with one arm around her waist, cupped her face with his other hand, and kissed her. This was no tender, cajoling, seductive kiss. It was demanding, furious, and devouring, his tongue delving deep. Her head slanted backward under the assault, Alexandra had to grab his waist for support. But as she did, the kiss was over as quickly as it began. He turned without a word, donned his hat, and mounted his horse, leaving her bereft and cold without his embrace, her lips tingling.

.

.

On the upper floor of the house, Robert watched the man who'd kissed his sister ride away without a backward glance, his three companions quickly following. He watched as Alexandra lifted a trembling hand to her lips, her gaze on the arched entrance to the courtyard. He sighed as he leaned his forehead against the wall, and closed his eyes.

"Damn it, what have I done?"


	14. Chapter 13

Spring had turned into summer. Summer was slowly giving way to autumn, releasing Paris of the stifling heat and humidity which sometimes made the odour truly unbearable. But although the seasons changed, Athos realized, Aramis didn't. Or, he had to correct himself. Aramis had changed before summer had arrived. He'd turned into him. Broody, sullen, taciturn, eyes veiled with something akin to sadness. Athos knew love could change people, he could see it happening under his own eyes. And while d'Artagnan had gone the way of change the poets would have everyone believe love brought, Aramis had gone the other direction. D'Artagnan had finally fulfilled his love, finding happiness with Constance, while Aramis had lost love. Something no one, especially not the poets, wanted to talk about. Ever.

Athos sighed heavily as he made his way to the small audience chamber in the royal palace. He couldn't doubt it anymore. Aramis had fallen in love with the girl who'd pretended to be a musketeer in the making. And Athos could no longer pretend not to believe it wasn't true love, he could no longer convince himself it would pass, that another woman would cross Aramis' path, and turn his head. His friend offered Fate no opportunity to thrust another woman into his life, no opportunity to lose his heart to another. He's been living like a monk these past few months. Garrison, palace, occasional errand, palace, garrison.

And the only one he would talk to for more than a few minutes, and in less than a barking manner, was Queen Anne. Athos wanted to worry what the renewed liaison with the Queen might bring all of them, but he couldn't. The two didn't have the air of lovers about them, their manners friendly, but not intimate. So he couldn't bring himself to tell Aramis to stop his association with the Queen. He only hoped she was able to bring a measure of peace to his friend.

He entered the audience chamber, bowed to the royal couple, and went to stand beside his three friends, greeting them with a slight nod.

"You're late," Porthos whispered.

Athos shrugged. Maybe he was, but so was the King's guest. Yet another diplomatic emissary from England. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. At least this one had fared better than his predecessor. There hasn't been an abduction attempt, or at least they haven't heard about it, and this time the King was actually aware of a peace treaty being negotiated.

"The Duke of Buckingham, your majesties," the royal announcer called.

Athos glanced toward the doorway and cursed under his breath, feeling Aramis stiffen beside him. They knew the approaching man. He looked taller, stronger, healthier, but there was no mistaking the mane of dirty-blond hair or piercing blue eyes. And there was no mistaking the woman walking beside him, her hand on his wrist.

She looked different. Dressed in a simple lavender gown, her hair gathered in a braided bun at the nape of her neck, her eyes downcast as she walked meekly beside the Duke of Buckingham, she looked dainty and fragile, younger than he remembered, the core of steel and determination carefully hidden behind the shy façade. But no matter how she looked, how she dressed, the eyes betrayed her, even looking at her in profile, those pale green eyes were unmistakable.

He glanced sideways at Aramis, and if he didn't already know his friend was lost, the look on his face would confirm it. A mixture of surprise, longing, and awe, he remembered seeing on his own face back in the day, during happier times. The same look he could see on d'Artagnan's face every day, whenever Constance was near. A look of a man who can't believe his luck in finding the one woman meant for him. But unlike with d'Artagnan, Aramis' expression had an underlying layer of pain at knowing the woman he loved would never belong to him. Athos wanted to clamp his hand on his friend's shoulder, but knew any expression of solidarity and support would have to wait.

The Duke of Buckingham bowed to the King and Queen. "Your majesties, thank you for the audience, and for your hospitality." He smiled at the woman beside him. "May I present to you my sister, Alexandra Hamilton-Burke."

She curtsied and Athos caught his breath, his friends' reaction echoing his. Sister? She was the man's sister? What kind of man allowed his sister to go gallivanting around a foreign country unaccompanied and dressed as a man? What kind of man needed his _sister_ to save him? What kind of man was Buckingham? And what kind of man had been his father to raise his daughter in such a manner? To raise a boy and a girl child in equal manner? Because it was obvious, despite her submissive pose in regard to her brother, it was a ruse. The two were equals only pretending to adhere to society's norms and rules of women being subjugated to men. Buckingham obviously held his sister in high regards, and judging by all Athos had seen and experienced while she'd been with them, pretending to be a musketeer, the man had all the rights to view her as his equal.

He highly doubted any such qualms and questions went through Aramis' mind. Not if his expression could serve as any indication. The pain was replaced with wonder, and a sliver of hope. A sliver that was quickly extinguished as pain returned. Athos wanted to sigh. There were no hopes of a future for a sister of a duke and a lowly soldier. No matter their feelings, the social gap was too big. And no matter Buckingham's regard for his sister, Athos knew how _haute_ society worked. They married for money, land, and power. If she wasn't yet attached or promised to someone, she would soon be. To an equal. He moved closer to Aramis, feeling the other two do the same, creating a united front of support. Life might not be fair, but that's why men had friends.

"Why don't you look at us, Lady Alexandra?" King Louis asked archly.

She was staring at a point beside the King's crossed ankles. "People are often uncomfortable with my eyes, sire," she replied.

Athos remembered that first day, when they'd all met her. He remembered the look in her eyes when he'd met her gaze. It was clear, direct, and somewhat mesmerizing, as if she could read his mind, and what she couldn't read he'd tell her eventually. It had been uncomfortable to hold that gaze, and each and every musketeer had averted his eyes that day. Each one except for Aramis. He'd probably seen it as a challenge, but later...If Athos were a superstitious man, he'd say she'd cast a spell on his friend that first day. A spell Aramis would never be rid of.

"I demand you look at me," the King ordered petulantly, and she finally lifted her gaze. Then quickly averted it once more as Louis frowned and fidgeted on the throne.

"I find them lovely," Queen Anne interjected softly. "Your eyes, I mean." She stood. "Why don't we leave the men to their politics and take a stroll around the garden. You can tell me more about yourself."

Alexandra slid a side glance at her brother, then curtsied again. "As you wish, your majesty."

"Good," said the Queen and nodded to the four of them. "These four musketeers are my shadows whenever I leave the palace."

Athos narrowed his eyes at the fib. They mostly protected the King, the Queen had her own set of guards. She sent him a quelling gaze, and he frowned. She was up to something. She smiled sweetly, and realization dawned. Queen Anne knew. She'd obviously paid much closer attention when Alec Reynaud had been with them, she'd obviously connected the dots and deduced the woman before her had been their young musketeer-in-training. It wasn't that hard, the eyes were unique. Unmistakable. Yet the question remained. What was she up to?

"They'll follow us at a discreet distance," the Queen continued with a pointed glance at the four, and looped her arm around Alexandra's. "So we'll be able to talk freely." She all but dragged Alexandra out the open door leading to the garden, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan trailing silently behind.

.

.

Alexandra could feel them behind, keeping the distance Queen Anne had requested. She could feel their eyes, she could feel _his_ eyes. She'd feared stumbling when she'd entered the audience chamber on her brother's arm and saw Aramis standing beside his three friends. He'd changed, not in physical appearance, he was still tall and strong, and as beautiful as she remembered, but there was a heaviness around his shoulders, a veil in his gorgeous eyes. It was as if something was weighing him down, and she wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him and hold him. Instead, she stood beside her brother as he presented her to the royal couple, curtsied, and breathed slowly to steady her galloping heart, feeling his eyes on her the entire time.

And just as her heart slowed down minutely, it started racing again as the Queen invited her on a stroll through the garden with the four musketeers as guards. Would she even be able to converse in a coherent manner? Her breathing was getting shallower, and she wished she could unlace her corset. It felt like a cage, constricting her lungs, making her itch all over. God, she wished she wore a man's shirt and breeches. At least she would feel normal, more at ease.

"Hello, darling," the Queen cooed as they came upon a gazebo where a blonde woman with sad eyes played with an infant. "I missed you," she murmured as she lifted the baby in her arms. "Did you miss me?"

Alexandra twined her fingers together in front of her abdomen, having no idea what to do with herself. "Lady Alexandra, this is Marguerite, my son's nurse."

Marguerite curtsied, murmured something and, at the Queen's nod, hurried away.

"And you've already met my son."

Alexandra looked at her host, startled.

Queen Anne merely smiled. "The eyes." She motioned to the two dainty chairs. "Sit down, please. And tell me, how does it feel?"

Alexandra lowered herself carefully onto a chair. "Feel what, your majesty?"

"To wear man's clothes," the Queen elaborated, her eyes full of wonder. "Without corsets and swaths of petticoats, or pins pricking your scalp."

Alexandra couldn't help but smile. "Liberating."

Queen Anne sighed. "I thought so." She rocked her baby. "I envy you. I wish I could be as free as you, I wish I would be able to do what you can do." There was no subterfuge, no guile in the Queen's face, just sincerity and admiration. "I heard what happened to your brother," she continued. "And I applaud you for what you've done to help. I know what it means for a woman to do something, anything, to take her Fate into her own hands." Their eyes met and Anne nodded. "I see you understand. Would you like to hold him?"

Alexandra looked at the bundle in the Queen's arms. She was no stranger to children, she'd helped deliver a few of them, yet holding this child in her arms seemed daunting.

"He doesn't bite," Queen Anne insisted. "Not yet. Take him."

She had no choice, but to tuck the Dauphin in the crook of her elbow. Instinct took over, and she rocked him. He stirred, opened his eyes, and a fist squeezed around her heart. They were Aramis' eyes. The boy opened his toothless mouth and, although she was expecting a wail, smiled at her. A pang of longing hit her. This could be her child. How would it feel to bear Aramis' child? She brushed her fingertip over his chubby cheek, and he grabbed it with his little hand, squealed happily.

"He's already in love with you," the Queen said softly.


	15. Chapter 14

It must run in the family, Anne mused as she watched the four musketeers from the corner of her eye. Her son was merely following his father's example. The look on Aramis' face said it all. The expression in his eyes was that of longing as he watched the woman he loved hold his son in her arms.

The look made Anne happy. Because after all this time, after all the liaisons and dalliances...Aramis has finally fallen in love. Although they've conceived a child together, she didn't love him. He was her friend, she'd turned to him for help in her greatest moment of need, but she didn't love him the way a woman loved a man. Fully and wholeheartedly, forsaking everything else. She didn't love him the way he needed to be loved. The way she suspected the young woman beside her did, if her utter unwillingness to look even in the most general direction of the four musketeers were any indication. There were two reasons a woman refused to look at a man. Either she despised him with all her heart, or she knew even the briefest of glances might betray her feelings.

It was no mystery to Anne that Aramis and Lady Alexandra have met before. _She_ 'd met her before. As a young man, a musketeer-in-training that had been assigned to the tutelage of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan a few months ago. Anne had recognized her right away, the eyes were a dead giveaway. And she'd recognized her as the woman that had stolen Aramis' heart by simply glancing at her friend's face as he saw her enter the audience chamber.

Anne wasn't privy to the real reason the girl had decided to pose as a man and join the musketeers, but thanks to her insistence and badgering, she was rather privy to what had been ailing Aramis ever since his return from Gascony. He'd returned a changed man, broody and taciturn whenever he didn't snarl at his companions, his eyes stormy and grief-laden, so she'd been adamant in discovering what had happened. Asking Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan didn't help, although she had no doubt Athos knew more than he let on, so she'd decided to ask Aramis directly. It hadn't worked. Not at first, not for a long time, but then, one day, he'd told the story, or the gist of it, to his son, while they'd both pretended she wasn't there, listening avidly. He'd seemed lighter afterward, freer, as if a bit of the burden weighting him down had lifted. She'd been glad he'd confided in her, but at a loss as to how to help him.

She still was. The fact the woman Aramis has fallen in love with was in Paris, utterly charming her infant son, didn't matter. The fact that the said woman appeared to return at least a bit of Aramis' feelings, didn't matter. She was English, he was French, and until the peace treaty was signed, if it ever would be, their countries weren't on friendly grounds. She was a duke's sister, he was a musketeer. And no matter Anne's influence, there wasn't a thing she could do to bridge that gap between them. No matter how she wanted to, she'd be unable to ensure her friend's happiness, and her heart bled for him.

.

.

It has always given him a peculiar kind of feeling, watching a woman with a child in her arms. Men claimed seeing a woman with a child made them want to procreate, spill their seed as God had intended them to. Aramis had never felt like that. Watching a woman hold a child, made him feel part of something greater, like beholding something special, sacred even. But now, watching Alexandra cuddle _his_ child, the boy obviously adoring her on the spot, Aramis finally knew what all those men had been talking about. He wanted to give her a child, he wanted her to bear his child. He wanted _her_ to be _his_. He's never felt such possessiveness before in his life. Or such a longing. Pity, she obviously didn't feel the same. She hadn't looked at him once.

"Tell me about yourself, Lady Alexandra," Anne enquired and Aramis decided to eavesdrop shamelessly. He wasn't the only one, his three friends also took a few steps closer to the gazebo. And they said women were the curious ones.

"What does your majesty want to know?" came the quiet reply, the voice like a caress down his spine.

"Do you have a husband?"

Aramis frowned. What sort of a question was that? The Queen had never been that direct before. Except with him when she'd asked him about what was wrong with him of late.

Alexandra was obviously as surprised. "No, your majesty."

She wasn't attached. He'd though she was Buckingham's lover or wife, but he'd been wrong. She was the man's sister. And now it turned out she wasn't attached either. Was she—? He remembered her arching her back on a silent scream, the tears in the corner of her eyes, the fleeting expression of pain on her face. God, she'd been a virgin. And he'd taken her like a hungry animal. While she truly deserved romance and tender seduction. A bed, rose petals, candlelight...She had deserved better. She still did.

"The ring?" Queen Anne nodded toward Alexandra's right hand where a ring rested on her middle finger. The same ring he'd seen dangling from a chain, nestled between her breasts, that night. "A sign of betrothal?"

"You're rather curious about my marital status," Alexandra snapped, then quickly shook her head. "I apologize, your majesty."

The Queen merely laughed. "No need to apologize, I know I'm curious. Now, about the ring. It has a special significance, I take it."

Alexandra sighed, obviously not eager to talk, yet even less eager to annoy the Queen of France. "It was a gift from my father. For my fourteenth birthday. He died of a fever a few months later."

"I'm sorry," the Queen murmured. "I shouldn't have pried."

 _No, you shouldn't have_ , Aramis thought. She shouldn't have pushed when it had been obvious Alexandra didn't want to talk about. Despite the time that had passed, the pain was still obviously there, making him wish he could hold her.

Alexandra merely shrugged, and smiled slightly at Marguerite as the woman came back to fetch the Dauphin. A desperate wail pierced the sky, as she tried to give him to the nurse, and Aramis fought a grin. His son certainly knew what he was doing. He wanted to stay in Alexandra's arms, and he was willing to do anything to accomplish his goal. Anne tried to take him, console him, but he would have none of it, he merely screamed louder. Until he was once again tucked firmly in the crook of Alexandra's elbow, staring adoringly up at her. Smart boy.

"He's quite manipulative, isn't he," Alexandra said, her voice a little louder. "I wonder who he's taking after."

"Speaking of which, who do you have to thank for your striking appearance, Lady Alexandra? Mother or father?" the Queen enquired.

Aramis' soft chuckle at Alexandra's cheeky remark died, and he frowned at her reaction to the Queen's question. She'd gone pale, her eyes hardened, and she visibly stiffened. The Dauphin made a sound of protest, and she relaxed her hold.

"Both." The reply was clipped and delivered in a curt tone, conveying a concise message that no further enquiries were welcome. Or would be answered.

Queen Anne looked as puzzled as he felt. As all four of them felt, judging by his friends' shared glances. She and the Duke of Buckingham were complete opposites. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with fair skin, blue eyes, and dirty blond hair, while she was petite, with black hair, pale green eyes, and dusky skin. The cut of the bodice and short sleeves of her gown revealed what he'd thought was a tan was the real colour of her skin. So if she'd taken after both her parents, who had her brother taken after?

"There are some relations that go beyond blood," a low voice sounded from behind the bend in the garden path, then the Duke of Buckingham strolled into view. "Sometimes even stronger than those bound by blood."

He might've appeared at ease, merely a man taking a leisure walk through the garden, but his expression told a different story. His eyes were hard, the corners of his lips pinched, colour riding high on his cheeks. He must've heard the last of the conversation and he wasn't pleased with it.

"Lord Buckingham." The Queen's smile was too bright, she knew she'd gone too far. "Please, join us."

He shook his head. "I'll have to decline, your majesty. I've come to fetch my sister," he explained, emphasizing the last two words. "I promised to show her Paris when I was done with my duties for the day."

As if relieved, Alexandra stood, smoothly transferring the Dauphin into his mother's arms, quelling his protests with one single look. She curtsied, thanked the Queen for her company, and placed her hand on her brother's wrist. While Buckingham nodded at the four of them, his eyes conveying the message the nod was more than a mere greeting, she kept her eyes firmly on the ground in front of her.

Until she walked by him. As if hearing an unuttered plea, her gaze brushed his and Aramis' heart slammed against his rib cage. He had one answer. Now, onto the rest of the questions.


	16. Chapter 15

Alexandra's eyes snapped open. She listened for any sound that might have woken her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once she could distinguish shapes, she searched the opulent chamber appointed to her, part of a suite their royal hosts have had prepared for her brother. The chamber was unfamiliar, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary, no shadows moving. She sighed, and closed her eyes again.

Only to open them a heartbeat later. The sound came again. From the direction of the window. The partially open window. Was someone trying to get in? They'd have to scale the wall to get to the second story, and there was no balcony, but it wasn't inconceivable someone might try. After all, her brother had been abducted just a few months ago too, they both assumed, prevent a treaty to be made. They'd be idiots not to try again, only this time with the man's sister. What better incentive. And what a mistake.

Without lifting herself off the bed, she rolled out of it, dropping softly into a crouch. She didn't bother with light, no need to give whoever was stupid enough to enter her chamber any indication she'd heard them, just grabbed her dagger, the only weapon Robert had allowed her to pack, and, back to the wall, slowly made her way toward the window. She tucked her body into the drapes and listened. It sounded as if her late-night visitor was only half-way up the wall, and judging by the grunts, the climb was quite an effort. It would take a while, so she leaned back, the dagger a familiar weight in her palm, and waited.

It hadn't taken him as long as she'd predicted, and as soon as the man, it was a man judging by his build, pushed the window fully open and vaulted over the sill, she slipped behind him, and pressed the dagger against his side.

"This was a really stupid decision," she hissed.

A heavy sigh, then his shoulders drooped. "I can see that."

She frowned. She knew his voice. It didn't explain what he was doing scaling the palace to her chamber, though. "What are you doing here?"

"Would you mind removing the dagger?" he asked rather amiably. "Getting stabbed wasn't in my plan."

"What was in your plan?" she snapped, the dagger still pressed to his side.

"Talking to you."

"Talking to me."

"Yes."

"You couldn't have done that during the day? Somewhere more...appropriate?"

"The dagger," he reminded her.

"It's the middle of the night," she snarled and removed the weapon. "I was sleeping, your grunts woke me, I didn't know who it was." She stomped to the delicate-looking table beside the bed, and slid the dagger back into its sheath. "What did you expect me to do? Cowering underneath the covers isn't my forte."

She busied herself with lighting a candle, then, feeling a little calmer, turned toward him, expecting an explanation. Only to cock her head at his expression. "What?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was losing her patience. If he wasn't talking soon, she'd throw him out of the window. "Aramis!"

His name must've roused him from whatever fugue he was in. "Yes?"

She rolled her eyes. "You could've talked to me today." He didn't. So, why now?

His expression grew sullen. "You wouldn't look at me."

"What?"

"You wouldn't look at me," he repeated morosely.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

He glared at her. "I didn't know if you wanted to talk to me."

"And I didn't know that _you_ wanted to talk to me," she retorted. "So desperately, even, that you decided to scale the palace wall."

"You looked at me when Buckingham whisked you away after your chat with the Queen."

This was getting more confusing by the minute. "You're not making any sense, Aramis."

"Don't you think I know that, Alexandra?"

That got her hackles up. "No need to get prissy. You're talking in riddles."

He looked affronted. "I'm not prissy. And I'm not talking in riddles."

"God, help me," she sighed. "Forgive me, but I just don't understand you."

He cleared his throat. "My head's a little muddled. It's just—Well."

Head cocked, his eyes roved over her body, and she finally looked down. Bit back a curse. The candlelight made her chemise almost transparent, and her arms crossed under her breasts— "Oh, do grow up!" she snapped, picked the candle and placed it on the hearth mantle, somewhere in between where they were both standing. Satisfied, she resumed her earlier position, arms akimbo, just to be on the safe side.

"That's better," he said. "And not better," he added as a mumbled afterthought.

"Aramis," she sighed. "Why are you here?"

He was instantly serious. "Why didn't you tell me?"

There were many things she didn't tell him. That she was getting a headache was one of them. "Can you be more specific? Why didn't I tell you what?"

"That he was your brother."

"You didn't ask."

"Alexandra," he warned.

Hearing him say her name did strange things to her insides, but that was her problem, not his. "You should've heard the contempt in all your voices when you talked about the _Englishman_. I didn't know how you would've reacted if you knew I was English as well."

His countenance darkened as if she'd just insulted his honour. She guessed she did, but he didn't press the matter. "I thought he was your lover."

She wished he'd have pressed the honour-insulting matter. It was better than where this conversation was veering. "You were wrong."

"You were a virgin, weren't you."

There it was. Alexandra suddenly found the carpet underneath her feet very interesting indeed.

"God, you were," he breathed.

Steeling her spine, she met his eyes head-on. "So what if I was. I'm not anymore. End of story."

"Jesus." His eyes were tender as he looked at her. "You should've told me."

"Why?" For a reason she didn't know, the answer was really important to her.

"I would've been gentler. I would've prepared you better." Something on her face must've betrayed the fact it wasn't the answer she'd been expecting, for he chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Oh, no, I still would've had you. I was too far gone by the time to stop. You still would've lost your virginity, but I'd made sure you'd remembered it in a better light."

She swallowed as her heart stuttered in her chest. He thought he'd hurt her, and though that first penetration had hurt, the sting had quickly disappeared, replaced by a feeling so indescribable, so overpowering, she still felt all warm remembering it. She was getting warm just now, the juncture of her thighs moistening, making her blush.

"There's nothing wrong with how I remember it, Aramis." Was that her voice? Was her voice really that husky? "You didn't hurt me. You made me feel—"

"What?" he asked, urgency in his voice that had suddenly deepened, a strange light in his eyes. "What did I make you feel?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I felt...You just made me _feel_."

"God, help me," he echoed quietly, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

"Is that why you came here tonight?" she asked, a sick feeling knotting in her stomach. "To ask for my forgiveness? Because there's nothing to forgive. I gave myself to you willingly."

"Jesus," he hissed. "No."

"No, what?"

"I didn't come here for that."

She was tired. Tired of standing here, having to talk to him, look at him, knowing that, despite the fact she might wish he'd scaled the palace wall in the middle of the night to tell her he loved her, he'd only come to clear the waters between them. "Then why are you here, Aramis?"

"I missed you." Judging from the bewildered expression on his face, the declaration surprised him as much as it had her. He chuckled and shook his head, as if resigned. "I missed you, Alexandra."

She swallowed heavily, her heart racing, the beat hammering like a drum in her ears. Could it be? She mentally slapped herself. Of course he didn't love her, she should stop daydreaming about that. But he wanted her, desired her, that was obvious. What was she waiting for, then? This might be the last chance she had of being in Aramis' arms. She would leave soon, they wouldn't meet again. She should live this night to the fullest, take anything he offered, and tuck it all away in her memory and close to her heart. He'd forever be hers there.

"I missed you, too," she whispered.

Then she was in his arms, his mouth on hers, he was licking and nibbling at her mouth. She lifted her hands to his shoulders, brushed her fingers along his neck, tunnelled them into his hair, and parted her lips.

"God, I missed you," he muttered against her lips, then captured her mouth in a ravenous kiss that she wished could last forever.


	17. Chapter 16

Aramis had left her standing at the foot of the enormous bed and proceeded in lighting five more candles, arranging them on the two small tables beside the bed. Obviously satisfied with whatever he'd tried to achieve, he turned toward her, his eyes hungry. She shivered. She could claim it was for being dressed in only her chemise and the window still being open, but it would be a load of crock. The only thing making her shiver was him. He prowled toward her, and she swayed a little. His possessive look was intoxicating.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice deep, raspy.

She could merely shake her head, no words were forthcoming.

"Good," he said, and pulled his shirt off over his head, letting it drop somewhere in the vicinity of his already discarded doublet. "Wouldn't want you not being able to enjoy tonight fully."

 _Oh, God._ She swallowed, wanting to say something, anything, but her voice simply wouldn't cooperate. So wouldn't her brain, it was too busy sending her eyes on a roving expedition over the broad expanse of his chest. It was magnificent. Broad shoulders, a fair dusting of hair on his chest, tapering down into a trim waist, a narrow trail of hair running down his sculpted stomach only to disappear into the waistband of his breeches.

"If you continue looking at me like that, it will all be over too soon, darling."

Her eyes jumped to his, then inexorably travelled back down again.

"I hope you don't mind the scars."

She looked at him again. His voice had changed. Was he embarrassed by his scars? By how they made him look? She shook her head and stepped closer, traced an ugly, jagged scar on his ribs with a fingertip. "Why would I?" she asked quietly. "They're a part of you."

When he offered no words in retort, and didn't pull away, she spread both her palms on his chest to explore. "They show what you've been through, what you are. _Who_ you are. They're badges of honour."

"There's nothing honourable in war," he admonished.

"But there is honour in defending your country, what you believe in, and the lives of those who cannot defend themselves." She took another step closer, until their bodies almost touched, and kissed the scar underneath his heart. "You're an honourable man, Aramis," she whispered against his skin, then looked up at him, knowing he still waited for permission. "I trust you."

There were no words afterward. Just heat and feeling. He pulled her to him fully, and kissed her hungrily as his hands roved up and down her back, her sides, up to cup her breasts. He hadn't touched her breasts that night at the pond, he hadn't touched her anywhere but her face, hips, and between her thighs that night. It almost felt as if he was trying to make up for the slight. But he didn't hurt her, his caresses were gentle, yet wherever he touched her, heat blossomed, until her skin seemed too tight for her body.

After what had seemed like an eternity, he finally broke the kiss, trailing his lips down along her jaw and along her throat, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. She moaned as he sunk his teeth gently into the spot where her shoulder met her neck, then he nibbled and kissed down her shoulder, moving the strap of her chemise out of the way. With a ragged moan, he once again captured her mouth, his tongue delving deep, sensually running alongside hers, kissed his way down her throat on the other side, pushing the other strap of her chemise down her shoulder.

He straightened, and released both straps. The slide of silk against her sensitized skin was almost painful and as it caught slightly on her nipples, she had to bite back a moan. Then he took a step back, and the chemise floated to the floor, leaving her naked, exposed to his gaze. A gaze that blazed with hunger as he looked his fill. A gaze so possessive, her arms twitched with the need to cover herself.

He must've noticed, because he frowned. "You're beautiful, Alexandra. Don't hide from me."

 _Oh, God._ She didn't think herself beautiful. She was pretty, yes, but never beautiful. Her skin was too dark, her eyes too pale, she was too small, too boyish...She didn't fit the beauty standards society demanded. But he made her feel beautiful. The way he looked at her, colour riding high on his cheeks, jaw tight as if he was gritting his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he was holding back...He made her feel beautiful.

With a shuddering breath, he finally moved. He placed his hands on her hips, pulled her closer, and claimed her mouth again. God, she could kiss him forever. When she circled his neck with her arms, he hoisted her up, and she quickly locked her ankles behind his back. She knew this. God, she'd dreamed of this for the past few months.

She wrenched her mouth away. "You're still dressed."

He stopped her protest with another kiss, placed one knee on the bed, and lowered her onto the linens she'd scattered about earlier. His hands free, he trailed his fingertips up her rib cage to cup her breasts. She arched up into his arms, her whimper quickly turning into a moan, when he gently pinched her nipples. Then she moaned again when he left her lips anew, licking a path down her chin and throat. She cried out softly, when he cupped her left breast and sucked the nipple into his mouth. He suckled in soft, gentle tugs that echoed between her thighs. Then he bit her tenderly, and a spear of pleasure shot up her spine. He lavished the same kind of attention to her right breast, playing with the recently abandoned nipple with his fingers, and moisture flooded the tender folds between her thighs.

God, what was he doing to her? It felt similar to what she'd experienced that long-ago night at the pond, when he'd caressed her there, but alien at the same time. How could she feel like this, when he was paying attention only to her breasts, his fingers weren't even down there! She tightened her fingers on his scalp as yet another spear of pleasure rippled through the juncture of her thighs, echoing deep inside her.

Kissing his way to the valley between her breasts, Aramis gently took hold of her wrists, disentangled her fingers from his hair, and placed her hands to her sides. Then he laved little open-mouthed kisses down her belly, and dipped the tip of his tongue into her belly button, provoking yet another sliver of pleasure deep inside her. She held her breath, because surely he wouldn't move any lower, and he paused, his breath tickling her lower abdomen, where the curls started.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Could she? Should she? Unable to help herself, she opened her eyes, and looked down her body. He lay between her spread thighs—she should be mortified at the position, but she strangely wasn't—, his hands holding her hips, his eyes blazing with hunger. He smiled, a smile full of promise, and, holding her gaze, lowered his mouth for the most intimate of kisses.

She arched her back, grabbing fistfuls of bedding while he closed his eyes on a satisfied moan, his tongue flicking at her folds as he'd done with her lips when they'd first kissed. Then, as he'd done with her mouth, his tongue delved deep, and her thighs tightened around his head. He rumbled appreciatively against her folds, and slid his tongue upwards, toward a spot that was tingling almost painfully. Alexandra bit her lower lip, clenching the bedding in her fists, her entire body trembling, taught like a violin string. Then, as with her nipple, he closed his mouth around that tingling spot, suckled, and everything...Melted.

The tension that had gripped her disintegrated, and sensation flooded in. Wave after wave of pleasure inundated her, all stemming from that tiny little nubbin of flesh between Aramis' lips. Frissons of heat ran up her spine, bubbling like champagne, stars sparkled at the back of her eyelids, and finally every muscle in her body loosened. Her thighs unclenched, she released her death grip on the sheet, and sighed as a wave of calm spread to her limbs, enveloping her in a soft cocoon.

She opened her eyes at the rustling sound, watched as Aramis shucked his breeches and braes, standing once more fully nude in front of her. She could only stare, and lick her lips, moving required a strength she didn't possess. Which he obviously didn't mind, for he once again joined her on the bed, and, his knees on either side of her thighs, moved upward on all fours, until he was hanging above her.

"That was the most erotic thing I've ever seen," he whispered. "And you are delicious."

He lowered his mouth to hers and there was a tang on his tongue that hadn't been before. She shivered. She was tasting herself. She suddenly wondered what he tasted like. Would he let her try? Would she be brave enough to ask? Then he balanced his weight on one arm, brushed his knuckles down her side, guided himself inside her, and all thought fled.

She sucked in her breath, her flesh still sensitive, yet he entered her slowly, inch by slow inch, so incredibly slow, she wanted to urge him to hurry. Since her mouth was too pleasantly occupied, she ran her fingers down his side, and grabbed his flanks.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, a smile in his eyes. "Easy does it. It's not a race."

"Aramis," she whimpered as he was still sliding into her too slowly.

"What is it, my love?"

She swallowed. "I need to feel you inside me."

"Jesus." He closed his eyes, his forehead furrowed. "I need to go slow. I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." She lifted her knees and he slid all the way in. "Oh, God."

"Aramis is the name," he corrected, his voice strangled.

"I know," she whispered. He felt so good inside her. She felt deliciously stretched, her still sensitized channel already tingling. She closed her eyes on a moan.

"No. Open your eyes. Look at me."

She could only obey. She opened her eyes. He lowered himself onto his forearms above her, and slid almost all the way out of her. Then thrust slowly back into her again. Retreated then thrust again. Over and over, holding her gaze. Her skin was tingling, her abdomen was inundated with sensation, pleasure, pain, ecstasy all mixed together, beckoning her closer and closer to a point she couldn't reach. Not without his help, and he kept his rhythm slow. She wanted to grit her teeth, she wanted to beg, she wanted to scream...Then instinct took over, and she pulled her knees to her chest. Suddenly he was even deeper. She moaned, he cursed. She clenched her muscles, feeling her channel close in around him, and his palm connected smartly with her backside. She yelped, and he grinned. She clenched around him again, and his grin turned into a snarl.

He slid out of her, shot up into his knees, braced onto one arm on the mattress by her head, placed the other palm onto her stomach, and impaled her. She slapped one hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. He froze, his eyes concerned, but she shook her head. Satisfied the scream hadn't been one of pain, he moved again. His thrusts became rapid, deep, powerful strokes, hips pistoning in a punishing rhythm. It felt as if her entire body was on fire, pinpricks of pleasure spreading and spreading, until she felt flooded with it as her hips rose to meet his, that damned hand keeping her pinned to the bed as she kept rising. And rising.

Through a haze of need, she looked up at him. His expression was that of concentrated hunger, his eyes dark and focused, the skin stretched taught over his cheekbones, his mouth parted in a snarl, sweat trickling down the side of his beautiful face. His palm on her stomach finally moved, lower, lower, until his thumb connected with the nubbin of sensation above where they were joined.

When before everything had melted, pleasure flowing through her like slow molasses, this time everything exploded. Pleasure-pain shot through her body as she shattered underneath him, her hand over her mouth the only thing preventing her from waking the entire palace. Shards of light, like the sun's reflection of a broken glass danced in front of her eyes, yet they didn't distort her view of Aramis. He thrust one last time, grinding against her, then pressed his face against her throat, muffling his own bellow as his body went rigid. She felt him pulse inside her, causing yet another wave of spasms to assault her, then he collapsed on top of her, his face still tucked in the crook of her shoulder.

He was heavy, heavier than she'd thought, his weight squishing her into the mattress, but she didn't care. He felt good stretched on top of her, familiar. Warm and comforting. Mustering the last of her strength, before exhaustion took over, she lifted one hand and tunnelled her fingers into his hair, holding him close.


	18. Chapter 17

He'd been dreaming of her in the candlelight, stretched out on a bed, at his mercy, but dreams didn't come even close to reality. Now he had something to dream about, to remember. She was beautiful, her golden skin, the candlelight only making it glow more, contrasting with the white linens, her lips parted, her eyes languid and heavy-lidded. He could die now and die happy. She fit to him, against him, around him perfectly as if she'd been made for him. And her response had driven him absolutely insane with lust. So frenzied he'd had to keep a tight rein on his control in order not to hurt her. And still he'd gone too fast, losing control completely when she'd squeezed around him. The minx. He hadn't been able to enjoy the view of her writhing underneath him, he hadn't been able to imprint it into his memory fully. He'd just have to give it another go.

He grinned, lifted his head, and realized he was still lying on top of her. Damn it, she probably couldn't breathe. He was hurting her. He slid out of her, gritting his teeth as her channel tightened around him as if not wanting to let him go. He just might die tonight. Her forehead creased, and her eyes slowly opened.

"Don't go."

He had no intention of going anywhere, and even if he wanted to, that soft plea would've kept him there as if chained to her. "I'm squishing you," he whispered.

"Mmmm." She smiled drowsily, rolled over onto her stomach, and tucked her arms under the pillow.

Aramis smiled, brushed her hair off her back...And froze. Short white lines crisscrossed her back. The scars looked old, healed over a long time ago, but Aramis knew scars never truly faded. Especially not those invisible to the eye. Inner scars a woman like Alexandra Hamilton-Burke also carried, judging by the ones he could see on her back.

He tenderly brushed his fingertip over one of the scars, and she stiffened. She must've forgotten her back was exposed, that he could see her in the glow of the candles. "What happened?" he murmured.

"Life," she replied just as quietly, her voice guarded.

He bit back a curse. The scars looked like the markings of a whipping. He couldn't imagine how she might've gotten them, what had happened to her. Why had no one protected her? Or had her brother the same signs of disciplining?

She made to turn, but he stayed her with a palm gently placed between her shoulder blades. "Don't move," he whispered. "What did you say before? Scars are badges of honour."

She snorted, the sound filled with disgust. "Honour had nothing to do with it."

What happened? Why had she been beaten? He wanted to ask, but knew she wouldn't tell him, she was already pulling away. He couldn't let that happen. He leaned down, pressed his lips to one of the many scars, noticing that up close there were many more, some shallower, more undetectable, than the others. "Yet you wear them with dignity," he whispered, kissed another scar. "And pride. They are medals of valour."

He continued his exploration, kissing and licking every scar he encountered, his heart breaking at the thought of her suffering through beatings—yes, multiple, judging by the scarring, so severe they left indelible marks. Kissing and licking down her back until her breathing quickened, and her skin heated. Then he turned her in his arms, and once again claimed her mouth. And her body.

.

.

"Aramis," she panted, hanging above him, her knees on either side of him, her eyes a little wild. "Help me."

He gritted his teeth to stave off his own climax. He wasn't yet so far gone to forget her pleasure came first. That's why he's let her ride him until he was almost cross-eyed. There was no chance he'd leave her behind. Moving one hand from where it gripped her hip, he reached between their bodies, and brushed the pad of his thumb gently over her nub, and watched her come undone.

She arched her back like a cat, eyes closed, a long, guttural moan erupting from her kiss-swollen lips. He wanted to enjoy the view longer, but sheathed deep inside her, he could feel every spasm, every aftershock, every muscle squeezing around him like an iron fist. And with one last surge, shards of white-hot pleasure shooting out of his balls and along his cock, he joined her.

She collapsed on top of him, panting and trembling. "I love you," she whispered as she nuzzled into his neck.

Aramis heart swelled. It wasn't just post-coital nonsense, he doubted Alexandra ever said anything she didn't truly mean. She loved him. He'd dreamt of this moment as well, and once more reality was so much better. She loved him. She loved _him_. A common soldier with blood on his hands, with no real home, and no fortune to his name—

He stiffened. What kind of life would she have with him? What could he possibly offer her? Nothing, except his love. But love didn't pay bills, it didn't put food into hungry mouths. And it didn't keep people alive. What would become of her if he died, if he made her a widow, leaving their children fatherless? Children. _Merde_ , she could be with child right now, he hadn't protected her. He hadn't done nothing but ruin her reputation if she remained with child. Would her brother marry her off, make another man accept his child as his own? A nobleman with lands and fortune, able to give her what she deserved. He certainly couldn't. She deserved better than him and he certainly didn't deserve her.

He disentangled himself from her limp limbs, stood, and quickly dressed. It was time to end this folly once and for all. For both their sake.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied curtly, searching for his sword, before he remembered leaving it in the park before climbing to her window. What had he been thinking climbing into her bedchamber? Apparently nothing, he hadn't been thinking at all.

"Aramis."

Her voice was so small, he couldn't help but look at her. Mistake! She was sitting on the bed, clutching the sheet to her breast, her eyes hurt.

"What did I do?"

He swallowed, the urge to go to her, take her into his arms, and tell her everything would be all right, riding him hard. He wanted to tell her he loved her, promise her forever, but it would be an empty promise. "You didn't to anything."

Her eyes were suddenly flat. "Is it because I told you that I love you?"

He closed his eyes. Did she have to repeat it? "Alexandra."

"You don't have to say it back, I know you don't feel the same way."

"Jesus." Of course, he felt the same way, how could she doubt it? But had he truly given her any indication she shouldn't? "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," she echoed his earlier reply, her voice even, calm.

He looked at her with disbelief. "Nothing? You just told me that you love me, you must expect something in return."

She shrugged. "I don't."

Women always expected something in return. She couldn't be any different. "I won't marry you," he blurted out.

"I didn't ask you to," she retorted, her voice reasonable.

He sputtered. "Excuse me?"

"I never mentioned marriage."

"Then what?" He was utterly confused.

She merely looked at him.

"No!" he snapped. "No!"

"What?"

"I won't make you my mistress."

"You already did," she said, so damned reasonably that he wanted to strangle her.

"Lover," he corrected. "And that is over as well."

"Why?"

He surely was dreaming. He was lying somewhere in a ditch, bleeding to death, dreaming up this idiotic conversation. "You're English, you're returning home soon."

"I don't have to."

Why did she have to be so calm? Why did she have to speak to him in such a reasonable matter? Why couldn't she act like all the other women? Cry, threaten, beg, throw things. "You're going back to England, Alexandra."

She stood off the bed and walked toward him, the sheet tucked around her body as if she wore a wedding gown. "Why?" she repeated. "Why can't I stay here with you?"

"No." He swallowed as she stopped in front of him, their bodies almost touching. He needed to get out of here before he said something he shouldn't, before he caved.

She frowned. "But why, Aramis," she insisted. "You might not love me, but you desire me. I please you, give you pleasure." She spoke clinically, detachedly, her voice even. Too even.

"You deserve better."

She reared back as if he'd slapped her. "What do you know about what I deserve?"

It was his turn to frown. "You're a duke's sister. You deserve a better life than I could give you. You need someone who can offer you all that you're used to—"

"Get out," she hissed.

"What?"

"Who the hell are you to tell me what I'm used to?" she growled, her eyes thunderous. "You have no idea. You don't know who I am, what I am. And you know nothing about what I want and what I deserve. Only I know that. No one dictates my life, not my brother, and least of all you. Only I decide what I want, and since what I want doesn't want to have anything to do with me," she said pointedly, "I _want_ you to get out. And I _don't want_ you to return."

If he hadn't been already in love with her, he would've fallen for her now. She was beautiful, standing there in nothing but a bed sheet, lecturing him, magnificent in her indignation and anger. He wanted to kiss her just to see her eyes blaze even more with anger. Her dry eyes. "Why aren't you crying?" he blurted out.

She arched an eyebrow, and he knew he was risking getting punched. "Excuse me?"

"Women usually cry at moments like this."

"I'm not like most women," she told him, as if he needed a reminder, she kept surprising him. "And I learned a long time ago that tears are completely useless and an utter waste of energy."

He remembered the scars, and he wanted to kill whomever had hurt her, whomever had taught a young girl that not even crying would help.

"You know your way out." She grabbed a handful of her makeshift gown, and turned from him. "Try not to break your neck while you're at it. Wouldn't want to have you on my conscience," she threw over her shoulder, blew out the candles, and sailed out of the bedchamber, head held high. An exit worthy of a queen.


	19. Chapter 18

She'd left Paris the next morning, spending the next few days on the outskirts of Rouen, visiting the Reynaud estate. Spending her time with Christine and Sebastien's children, galloping along the fields with them, sparring with the eldest son, under strict supervision by Sebastien, of course...It had all kept her from thinking about that last conversation with Aramis. Her brother had known something was wrong when she'd suddenly decided to visit their cousin, but he hadn't pried. He'd merely frowned, kissed her on the forehead, told her to be careful, and sent her on her way. Christine had also known something was amiss, but she hadn't been as reluctant to talk about it as Robert had been. Unfortunately for her, she hadn't been able to pry anything out of Alexandra, so very used to keep things close to her chest. For her private things were to be kept private, no matter the closeness of familial ties.

Yet the few days of respite were over, and she'd had nothing better to do on her way back to Paris, but to think about that last conversation with Aramis. She was still congratulating herself for having kept her dignity almost entirely intact. She'd asked rather legitimate questions, she'd tried to reason, and when she'd failed, she'd held her head high. She hadn't demanded anything, she hadn't thrown a tantrum, and in the end she'd refrained from hitting him, or worse, throwing him out of the window. She was rather proud of herself. She wasn't even that heartbroken, she'd known the outcome before she'd proposed to stay in France. With him. She'd known the outcome and hence hadn't argued. She'd known it would've been futile to argue, he didn't love her. He might desire her, but passion and desire faded. Sooner or later he would've tired of her and she'd truly be heartbroken then. In a way, he'd done her a favour, really.

Yet she didn't regret trying to reason with him. And she didn't regret telling him she loved him. To her, love was a special kind of emotion. It was very rare in her opinion, so it needed to be shared, it needed to be shown, and needed to be proclaimed aloud. Why should she hide something so pure? Why should she keep silent? She wasn't ashamed of love, she wasn't ashamed of feeling love, and she wasn't ashamed of loving Aramis. She might not have gotten her man, but she felt more complete by loving him. As if something has been missing inside of her until she'd realized she was in love, as if a last piece of her heart had fallen into place. She knew love now. Love for a parent, love for a brother, love for a friend. And now love for a man.

It felt good. It felt right.

She'd only escaped to Rouen to keep her distance, to not be more of nuisance to him than she'd already had been. Not because she was embarrassed, but because she refused to look at him and see that pinched expression on his face. He'd looked as if she'd hurt him by confessing her love to him, and she knew he hadn't wanted to hurt her with his rejection. So she'd decided to leave, wait for her brother to join her in Rouen, after the treaty was signed, for them to sail to England from Le Havre.

However, one little summons from the Queen of France had thrown a wrench into her well-thought plan. Robert had informed their royal hosts that she'd left ahead of him, visiting with their cousins, but the Queen had obviously refused to accept the excuse, and demanded her presence at the royal ball that same evening. It wouldn't do to refuse a royal decree, not if she wanted her brother to succeed in fulfilling his diplomatic mission. So she'd packed her belongings once more and set back to Paris. She only hoped not to embarrass her brother with her choice of wardrobe. The best gown she'd brought with her was an emerald creation with a simple cut and modest bodice which would fit at a royal ball as well as she fit among the simpering pale ladies at the court of England. The latest fashion was all about ruffles, decorations, and plunging necklines which all made her appear even shorter and somewhat stout. She looked much better in simple, unadorned gowns with modest bodices that elongated her figure, preferring to play with colour instead of design. Every single gown she owned, which weren't many, since she refused to spend her brother's money on frivolities, was in a hue that fit her colouring to perfection. From deep jewelled tones to pale pastels, everything accentuated her eyes and tawny skin. That was her one touch of vanity.

.

.

Her brother's expression, when he helped her alight from the carriage, caused a frisson of alarm to unfold in her breast. He looked part concerned and part angry, with anger waging a winning campaign on the concern.

"What is it?" she asked, a thousand possible answers playing inside her head. He failed in securing the King's signature on the treaty, her sudden absence has caused a rift that might prevent the treaty from being signed, someone had been abducted—again, someone had been injured, someone had died.

"No one died," he snapped as if reading her mind. "No one's been abducted either, and the negotiations are complete."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I'll tell you inside," he replied, ushering her into the palace. "Come on."

She had no other choice but to run beside him to compensate for his quick, longer stride. Sometimes she wished her legs were longer so she wouldn't have any trouble keeping up with people.

Once inside their suite, he turned to Meg, who'd been dashing behind them, at least Alexandra hadn't been the only one to perspire while keeping up with her brother. "She needs to be dazzling tonight. Can I count on you?"

"Yes, my lord," the girl said, and quickly disappeared into Alexandra's bedroom. Probably to begin her preparations. God only knew what those were.

"Why do I need to be dazzling tonight, Robert?" Alexandra asked suspiciously. "You're not planning to marry me to some French nobleman, are you? Because I won't do it. We've made a pact, you and I, remember. We'll only marry for love. I won't marry someone just to secure a damn treaty."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course, that's the first thing that comes to mind. Have I ever tried to marry you off?"

He had a point. "No."

"At your age other women had already borne a least two children, yet you're still unattached." He leaned down until they were eye to eye. "And you'll remain that way," he added. "You might not want to, but it's not all in your hands, is it?"

He knew. Of course, he knew. And of course, he didn't judge. "No, it's not."

"He's an idiot."

She smiled. "I know."

"I might have to challenge him, though. For defiling my sister."

"Utterly consenting sister." He groaned, and she cleared her throat. "Moving on. Why do I have to be dazzling tonight if you're not marrying me off, and the only man I might want to be dazzling for doesn't want me?"

"The idea of a duel is getting more and more appealing."

"Robert."

"King James had been informed of tonight's ball and decided to send some of his advisers to participate. A show of support for the treaty, if you will."

Alexandra shuddered. More than advisers the people surrounding their King were a bunch of idiots leeching off the goodwill of their monarch who was too blind and too stupid to see them for who they really were. "Who?"

As Robert rattled off the few names, she sighed. Pearls, the lot of them. Then she heard the name Cumberland, and cursed softly.

"He's brought his Duchess with him as well," he finished sourly.

Cumberland. The court's biggest gossip. And his wife was no better. Feeling her heart in her throat, she looked at her brother. "I can't go."

He sighed. "You have to."

"It'll ruin everything. _They_ 'll ruin everything." She looked up at him pleadingly. "Everything you've worked for, everything you've accomplished will be for naught."

"It's a peace treaty, Alex. The negotiations are complete, all we need is a signature."

She shook her head. " _You_ are the face of this treaty. You're the one whose credibility and integrity had brought all of this to fruition. It takes but a whisper, you know that. And they will whisper. Until it becomes a roar."

"It won't matter?"

"Won't it?" she laughed. "You've been the darling of the court until they've gotten wind of just where I come from. Now they merely tolerate you because you're useful to King James. And you're only useful, because of your connections."

He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her forehead. "This is France, Alex."

"And whatever language is spoken, gossip is still gossip."

He sighed. "No matter what, you have to come to the ball. The Queen wishes it, and despite the fact she obviously likes you, I don't dare defy her."

"She'll wish she didn't know me before the first dance," she murmured.

.

.

She'd been wrong. It hadn't taken as long as to get to the first dance. The whispers started as soon as she appeared in the gilded ballroom. They followed her as she made her way toward the royal couple, spreading among the crowd as the wind in the tree tops. As she reached the royal dais, she met her brother's eyes, mouthed an "I'm sorry", and curtsied, keeping her eyes downcast.


	20. Chapter 19

He watched her as she made her way slowly to where the royal couple sat. She was beautiful, the deep emerald of her gown making her hair gleam and her skin glow. She stood out in the crowd. The simple cut of her dress made her into an elegant and artful masterpiece in the sea of fluttering, decorated, and puffy peacocks surrounding her. He couldn't look away, and neither could the other guests. But, Aramis noted with a puzzled frown, the gazes were quickly turning from surprised and admiring to speculative, disdainful and amused as faint whispers followed her progress through the ballroom. Whispers that fanned out through the crowd like a wildfire. Whispers she was probably aware of, if her meekly downcast eyes were any indication. Buckingham wasn't as inconspicuous. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, his body vibrating, probably with the need to hurt someone.

Aramis' heart skipped a beat. Was it his fault? Were the whispers about them? Had someone seen him sneak into her bedchamber that night? Had he utterly ruined her reputation? Was he the one her brother wanted to hurt? If it was so, Aramis was more than willing to give him ample opportunity.

Without realizing he'd moved, he was standing on the edge of the crowd, watching her curtsy, her small hands balled into fists as she held her gown. Then her eyes rose for just a heartbeat and he could see it wasn't embarrassment or mortification that was keeping her chin down, it was restraint. Her eyes, reflecting the deep green hue of the dress, were blazing with fury.

Before he could think of a possible explanation for the fury, or for the mouthed apology to her brother, the whispers reached him. Bringing with them more-or-less horrified gasps, cackles, and disapproving glares.

"...no wonder..."

"...she looks nothing like him..."

"...her colouring..."

"...that explains it..."

"...not related..."

"Lord only knows where she came from."

"...not a drop of noble blood..."

"...bought from a brothel as a child..."

"...sold..."

"What went on in that household?"

"...brought his mistress in front of our King..."

"...disgraceful..."

"...no shame..."

"...no place for her..."

"...no lady..."

"...a mere whore..."

Blackness descended on his eyes, his vision concentrating on a single point. The portly man standing on the other end of the ballroom beside a horse-faced woman, surrounded by courtiers. Courtiers that were giggling and gasping as they absorbed every single word coming from the _gentleman's_ mouth. Judging by the mocking and disgusted glares the man's entourage kept shooting Alexandra, Aramis knew, the man was the cause of all the gossip. _How dare he?!_ Like a large beast stalking its prey, Aramis prowled alongside the edge of the crowd, moving closer and closer to his target. His vision narrowed even more as he closed in, the roar of his blood in his ears drowning every other sound.

One moment he was ready to make his move, and the next three pairs of arms were restraining him as someone hissed the order of calming down into his ear. He couldn't calm down, he wouldn't. Not until the bastard stopped spreading lies about Alexandra. But his three friends wouldn't let him attack a royal guest, something akin to suicide for a musketeer, and as they dragged him away, none in the crowd the wiser as to what had almost befallen one of their own, he suddenly met Alexandra's eyes. Her eyes were wide and startled, then mortification slowly crept into her gaze, and she looked away.

.

.

It was all over. Her brother's effort was for naught. He'd suffered in captivity, he'd suffered even more in convincing King James to give him another opportunity to reach an agreement with France, he'd succeeded in negotiating the treaty...Only to fail because of her. Because of the people's sick need to gossip and spread rumours and half-truths, the same half-truths and downright lies that were still keeping the English court entertained even after all these years. And that were now keeping the French court entertained as well, keeping her brother from accomplishing his goal.

Alexandra trembled with the impotent rage boiling up inside her, bit her lower lip to prevent herself from sending the Duke of Cumberland to hell, kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her instead of slamming her fist into the Duchess of Cumberland's unsightly face.

It always ended like this. Once people got wind of the "truth" according to the Cumberlands, they severed all ties. She had no friends, thanks to the Cumberlands, no one wanted to come near her in fear some of her _taint_ might rub off, leaving them as ostracized as she was. Everybody abandoned her. Everybody except for her brother, and her cousin, the only family she had left. And now Aramis. Heavens above, he'd looked like he was going to run the Duke of Cumberland through. God only knew what would've happened if Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan hadn't dragged him away. Luckily no one had seen the hasty retreat. Why had he done it? Why had he been willing to risk everything for her? For all he knew, what was being whispered around the ballroom was all true, and she was tainted beyond redemption. Yet he'd been prepared to spill blood. His eyes had been murderous as he was being dragged away, and she had to look away. For the first time in her life, she'd been unable to hold someone's gaze. She hadn't been able to hold his gaze, for fear of seeing condemnation in them. Or worse, pity.

Whispers continued, she could see the disgusted gazes from the corner of her eyes as she held her head high, staring into nothing, a point in the far corner of the ballroom, above all their heads. She felt her brother move closer and the whispers swelled. He was offering support and comfort, not that she needed them, while they thought and invented who knew what. It didn't matter, nothing they said could touch her. Nothing they said could hurt _her_ , but it hurt others. It hurt her brother and continued hurting him. And his efforts. Guilt by association. She wished she could spare him that at least. She would do anything to spare him that.

A deathly hush descended on the ballroom as the Queen suddenly rose from the throne. With a look of mild disgust, she gathered her skirts, and made her way toward Alexandra whose heart froze. This didn't bode well.

"Lady Alexandra." The Queen's lilting voice echoed in the silence. "The air in here is stifling. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me on a stroll through the garden?"

Alexandra blinked as the woman presented her arm, while it should've been the other way around. It should be the Queen to loop her arm through Alexandra's. "As your majesty wishes," she murmured, and took hold of Anne's arm.

The Queen patted her hand, and, as the sea of people parted before her, their gazes surprised and perturbed, they made their way toward the terrace. "If there's something I abhor," the Queen said loudly, "it's gossip. And those who spread it." And before they slipped through the door, delivered her parting shot, "No matter their status."


	21. Chapter 20

The large terrace was shrouded in shadows, and blissfully quiet, the silence interrupted only by the sounds of the night and the Queen's footsteps.

"How can you walk so quietly?" Anne asked. "I could almost believe you're not here."

"It's the slippers," Alexandra replied distractedly. "The soles are made of soft leather."

Queen Anne drew her to a stop underneath a softly-glowing lantern. "Show me."

Alexandra lifted the hem of her gown, poked the foot out from underneath it. The slippers were made of black silk damask stitched on a soft leather sole. There were no lacing or ties, yet they fit snugly and comfortably, since they were made especially for her. All the slippers she owned, most of them made entirely of supple leather, weren't made on the usual straight lasts, but for each foot individually, offering the best fit possible.

The Queen leaned down for a closer look. "They're beautiful. Lovely pattern." She straightened, patted her skirts back into shape. "And I'm sure they're not torture devices as my heeled shoes."

"I'm short. A few inches won't make a difference." Alexandra shrugged. "And I like to be comfortable."

"It shows," the Queen said with a soft smile. "Your gown is simple yet elegant without any unnecessary frivolities, you're not being strangled by your own corset, the hairstyle isn't pulling your face off, and your feet aren't screaming for release."

"Your majesty—"

Anne shook her head. "It's not a reprimand, I truly envy you. I wish I could be as free." She sighed. "We both know what would happen if I appeared in public in a gown that didn't consist of at least twenty yards of fabric and ten pounds of jewellery. I wouldn't set the fashion, the people in there would have a new target. Had the Queen gone mad? Was the country destitute? What sort of image do we project to other countries?" Another sigh. "No one should be fodder for gossip, yet people like those in there, focus their every effort on spreading dung about everybody else in order to make themselves look better, in order for others not spreading dung about them."

"Your majesty," Alexandra began again. "Why are you being nice to me? Why are you even talking to me? You know how those people are, you shouldn't associate with me, my _taint_ is contagious."

"I'm the Queen of France," Anne answered matter-of-factly, "I'm already a target of gossip. I told you, some people live for that. But my support holds more weight than all of them. I'm talking to you, because you're an intelligent woman whom I admire. I'm being nice to you, because I like you, and because I owe you more than you could ever imagine."

"You don't owe me anything, your majesty."

"Of course, I do," the Queen insisted. "You saved my dear friend. From a bullet and from himself. He's been slowly killing himself, and you made him realize he's been throwing his life away. You made him see what true love is, what he's been missing." Anne smiled, happiness and gratitude shining in her eyes. "Loving you didn't change him, it just peeled away the layers, until the real him appeared."

Alexandra gaped. "What are you talking about?"

The Queen merely nodded toward the end of the terrace where four men stood, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan keeping Aramis curbed between them as all four looked at them.

Alexandra sputtered. "Aramis doesn't love me."

The Queen chuckled. "He was willing to attack an English nobleman in the middle of a crowded ballroom for spreading lies about you. What would you call that?"

"A misguided protective instinct?" she supplied.

"As you wish," the Queen murmured as they approached the four musketeers and released Alexandra's arm. " _Messieurs_ ," she said, looking at Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, "accompany me back to the ballroom and let's leave Lady Alexandra and the man with the—What was it?" she looked at her. "Misguided protective instinct to talk." She looked at Aramis archly. "Don't ruin everything by being you."

Alexandra made to follow the Queen, but Aramis stepped into her path. Keeping her eyes averted, she tried to duck the other way, but he blocked her again. She huffed.

"Look at me," he demanded and when she didn't, released a growl of frustration. "Look at me, Alexandra," he repeated more gently. "Please, I won't think less of you because of a few lies."

She sighed, looked up, and met his gaze squarely. "They're not lies."

.

.

Aramis merely looked at her, waiting. He refused to believe what the people in the ballroom were whispering weren't lies. He _knew_ they were lies, damn it all to Hell. Yes, she might not be related to Buckingham, that was rather obvious from the differences in their colouring, but that didn't make her the man's mistress. She'd been untouched until _he_ 'd had her. So what if she wasn't of noble blood, what if her beautiful skin was darker, what gave the people in there the right to judge, the right to humiliate her, the right to call her a—He balled his hands into fists, rage rising inside him again.

"Not all of it," she specified quietly, bringing him back from the brink.

"I don't care," he said adamantly. It was the truth, he didn't care. It didn't matter where she came from, it mattered who she'd become. What mattered was inside. Her brain, her wit, her courage...Her heart. That was what made her so utterly beautiful, so appealing. Her true beauty shone from within. She was pure, she was light. She was love. She was everything the guests in the ballroom weren't. Everything he wasn't.

She shrugged. "You might as well know. You'll see how wrong about me you've been."

He crossed his arms over his chest. Nothing she said would make him see her differently. "All right, explain."

She leaned back against a pillar, clasped her hands behind her back, and closed her eyes. "My real mother was a Romani, daughter of the clan leader. One day she was raped on a country road, and ended up with child. She could've terminated the pregnancy, but she refused, so her father disowned her, and sent her into exile. She found employment as a scullery maid in a country manor, but when I was around four, the master of the house attacked her and tried to rape her. She lost her post, the man's wife making sure my mother couldn't find work in any respectable households. She was a witch, they said." She opened her eyes and looked at him, her gaze resigned. "The only work she could find was in a brothel."

His heart broke for her, and for the strong, brave woman who'd given birth to her and been willing to do anything to provide for her child.

"My mother had to sell her body to keep me fed, warm and dry."

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, but he knew she wouldn't let him. She held herself stiffly, rigidly. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured.

She chuckled mirthlessly. "Wasn't it? She could've stayed with her family, with her clan if she didn't decide to keep me."

The fact she'd kept her child, proved the woman's courage, her heart, more than anything else could.

"She was beautiful," Alexandra continued. "I was a baby, but I remember. I remember her voice as she sang me to sleep, I remember how soft her skin was when she held me, I remember how she looked like. She was so little, she looked fragile, but she wasn't. Her skin was darker than mine, her hair was black and wavy falling to her hips, and her eyes were so big and dark. They called her the Gipsy, and every patron wanted her. I remember how they looked at her. They wanted her even after she became sick." She hugged herself. "She was so sick, her skin clammy and pale, she was coughing blood, yet they didn't let her rest until she got better. I took care of her the best I could, but she never got better."

Aramis gritted his teeth. No child should watch their mother slowly wither and die. No child should lose a parent like that.

"The other women were relieved when she died. She was competition, you see. They never said anything while she was alive, but they made it quite clear afterward. And since they hadn't been able to take it out on her and ruin "the merchandise", they focused their resentment on me. The owner kept me around, because I was useful. I was little, but I could work. I'd been working since my mother and I moved to the brothel. So they decided to keep me. I was a maid and a whipping boy. I was punished when I did something wrong, I was punished when one of the girls was angry, sometimes I was punished for simply existing, for looking like my mother."

He remembered the traces on her back, and wished all those who dared put their hands to her a long, painful death, and an even painful eternity.

"I tried to escape, but they always found me, always brought me back. The punishments were even harsher when they brought me back." She took a shuddering breath. "Then the looks started. Some of the patrons started looking at me like they'd looked at my mother, and the owner used that to keep me from running. She promised to give me to them if I tried to escape again. I didn't. Then one day she decided I was old enough to earn my keep like my mother had done."

He felt as if he was locked in ice. "How old were you?"

"Five."

Bile rose in his throat. They'd wanted to prostitute a five-year-old?! He wanted to kill someone, preferably the woman who'd wanted to sell a child. He had to clear his throat a couple of times, before he was able to speak. "What happened?" How did she get out of there? How did she end up with the Buckinghams?

"That part of the whispers is true. The Duke of Buckingham bought me."

He gritted his teeth. How could the man—

"Someone must have told him." She shrugged. "I don't know, he never told me, and I never asked, but somehow he ended up in the brothel and bought me. Paid quite well, actually. Surprised the owner so much, she didn't have time to ask for more." She let her arms drop to her sides, relaxing. "He took me home to his country estate to meet his wife and son, and I ran away that first night. But there's nowhere you can go in the middle of nowhere in Leicestershire, so they found me rather quickly. I was waiting for punishment, but he merely sat me down by the hearth, fed me soup, then Lady Mary gave me a bath herself, and out me to bed." She sighed. "I tried to run every night for the next few weeks, but they brought me back over and over again. And over and over again, instead of beating me, they sat me down, warmed me up, fed me, bathed me. They never hurt me, they made me feel—"

"At home," he finished softly.

She nodded. "Yes. At home. They didn't make me work, tried to prevent me from helping around the house, on the estate. Robert taught me how to ride, Lady Mary taught me to dance and embroider, though I'm rubbish at both."

Aramis grinned.

"And the Duke taught me to defend myself. I finally trusted him then."

Aramis understood. She'd been waiting for something bad to happen, for her to suffer the same fate as her mother, for the Duke to claim what he bought. And the only way she could trust him, believe he wouldn't hurt her, was for him to teach her how to defend herself. He had to admire the man. He'd rescued a child from a fate worse than death, brought her to his home, educated her, kept her safe. "Did he adopt you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. One day he just told me that he'd given me his name, that I was theirs, that we were a family. It was my sixth birthday."

And what better gift for a child who'd only known grief and hardship until then.

"I've been a Hamilton-Burke ever since." She looked at him, utterly composed. "Now you know."

He nodded. "Now I know."

"So?"

He smiled, his heart bleeding for her. "Those who judge you, and your brother, based on rumours and gossip are idiots. I'm no idiot, Alexandra." He stepped closer to her. "What happens to us, life shapes us all. Yours shaped you into the most remarkable woman I've ever met."

She scoffed and he cupped her cheeks. "You're beautiful inside and out, Alexandra Hamilton-Burke. You're a brave, smart, confident, resilient woman who can fence like a musketeer and has a mean right hook."

She laughed, blushing slightly. He'd never before seen her blush. It was a heartwarming sight. "I'm all that?"

"All that and more." He brushed his thumbs along her cheeks, and kissed her.


	22. Chapter 21

She leaned back against the pillar. Her arms were around his neck, his around her waist, their bodies fused together from hip to mouth. The night air was crisp, and fragrant with the aroma of the last of the blooming flowers in the garden. The soft breeze whispered gently in the treetops, fusing with the songs of the crickets. It was a perfect moment. A moment to savour, a moment to remember. A soft, pliant woman in his arms, her lips moving sensually under his, her whimpers sweet music in his ears. He kept the kiss slow and tender, never wanting this moment to end.

But everything in life ended.

With one last gentle bite on her lower lip, he released her mouth, and leaned his forehead against hers, their gazes holding.

Her eyes saddened. "Nothing's changed, has it?"

He didn't pretend not to understand. "No."

She pushed at his chest until he released her, stepped away. "You know the truth now. There's not a drop of noble blood inside me, I'm a bastard, I'm of lower birth than you. My mother was a whore, and the only reason I actually have a family is because they bought me."

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "I don't care where you came from, your parentage doesn't matter."

"I understand."

No, she didn't. She would never understand. She thought he didn't love her, and she couldn't be more wrong. He could tell her the truth. That he loved her. Loved her more than he'd ever though it possible to love someone. But he couldn't. He shouldn't. Because she'd never understand why he insisted on pushing her away, while the answer was so simple. He was a coward. It was easier to push her away now, to not tell her, to let her go, than to make her unhappy and miserable later on. It was easier to feel sorry for himself, he could admit it, than to grasp what happiness he was offered. She wasn't for him. And he wasn't for her.

"You deserve better."

She rolled her eyes. "What do you know what the daughter of a Romani prostitute deserves?"

"Stop it," he snapped. "Your mother was a courageous woman willing to do anything for her child. You've inherited more than her beauty, you've inherited her spirit. You're your mother's daughter."

"And a Duke's sister," she said bitterly. "Even if not by blood."

"Exactly," he continued calmly. "And a Duke's sister deserves someone who can offer her everything and more. Someone who can provide for her, someone who can shield her from the gossip, someone who can provide her with a respectable name and lineage."

"Who do you think will want me?" she asked. "Everybody's heard rumours, and those who have not, the likes of the Cumberlands are quick to rectify that."

He released a frustrated breath, shook his head. "Your brother will—"

"Robert will never force me to do anything I don't want. Unlike what you believe, only _I_ can dictate my life. Nobody else. _Me._ _I_ know what I want. _I_ know what I deserve."

She was magnificent, her body vibrating with anger, her eyes sparking with fury. She drew him in, made him wish and hope for things he could never have. But at least he could touch her, hold her for a little while longer before she left his life forever. He lifted his hand toward her cheek, but she sprung away before he could touch her.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped. "You said it yourself, I deserve better. I deserve more than scraps from any man. I deserve more, I deserve it all." She nodded toward the ballroom. "You can go back to your carefree life, back to your friends, to the mother of your child. Who knows, maybe she needs a spare," she spat. "Go back into the arms of all the willing women who ask nothing in return. After all, it's there that you belong."

And she melted into the shadows of the garden, leaving him cold and bereft, wanting nothing more than to follow her, promise her everything. Promise her eternity. But it would be an empty promise and soon she would come to resent him, regret. It was better to end it now. It was better this way. His heart plunged into his stomach as he turned the corner and almost slammed into his three friends, met the Queen's teary eyes.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why didn't you tell her?"

"Eavesdropping is something unbecoming a Queen," he said, glowered at the other three, and strode back toward the ballroom.

"You're a coward!" Anne called after him.

.

.

Alexandra was still seething as she marched deeper into the garden. She supposed it was easier being angry. Anger directed at someone else prevented her from feeling sorry for herself. Because what could a woman who has fallen in love with a man who didn't return the sentiment do but feel sorry for herself. And although she didn't have much practice with the feeling, she was a quick learner. Too quick. Hence, a bout of anger was in order.

Aramis was an idiot! Yet he wasn't. He was smart, witty, and eloquent. Honourable, handsome, valorous, chivalrous, a protector...This wasn't helping. She needed to be angry with him, not admire him. Her mother, both of her mothers, would've approved of him. So would her father. He was everything a woman wished for in a husband. Minus a fortune. But to her, money wasn't everything. Respect and honour were much more important—

A sound behind her made her scowl as her anger rose anew. Why did he follow her? She whirled to give him another piece of her mind, but it wasn't Aramis behind her. It was a brute of a man easily over six feet with mangy hair, scarred face, and an eye-patch over his left eye. His good eye ran up and down her body as he leered and she felt her heart in her throat. Without a weapon she had no hope of fending him off, and it was obvious what he wanted. Her only option was to scream for help and make a run for it.

She opened her mouth, but before any sound could emerge, a hand clamped over her lips as an arm shackled around her torso, forcing all the air out of her lungs. She hadn't heard anyone approaching from behind, and she wanted to kick herself. She'd forgotten the most important thing her father had taught her. _Always know what's behind you._ But the story she'd told Aramis had dredged up memories. She'd seen the man leering at her, taller, stronger, known she had no weapon to defend herself, and the old fear of ending up like her mother had resurfaced. Making her sloppy.

"Is this her?" the man holding her asked.

Eye-patch nodded. "Plain dress, dark skin." He leaned closer to her face. "Pale eyes. It's her."

She narrowed her eyes. This wasn't a crime of opportunity, it was premeditated. If it wasn't rape, what was it? Then realisation struck. Abduction. They had no idea about the havoc the gossiping Cumberlands have already wreaked, they were making sure the treaty didn't see the light of day. Why else would someone come to the Louvre to kidnap the dark-skinned, pale-eyed woman in a plain dress? For the same reason they'd abducted Robert in the first place. What was it about this damned treaty that someone didn't want it to be signed? Or was it England this someone didn't want a treaty to be signed with? Whatever the case, she'd be the leverage this time. Well, tough! Because she refused to be leverage.

She leaned back against her captor, lifted her legs, and kicked at the Eye-patch with all her might. It was like kicking a stone wall barefoot. She'd forgotten about her stupid slippers. She wished she'd worn her boots. The ones with the hard wood sole and the steel heel. Her captor increased the pressure on her lungs, and black spots appeared in her peripheral vision. But she refused to go down like that. She writhed, she kicked, she screamed behind his palm until her air ran out.


	23. Chapter 22

Robert Hamilton-Burke, the Duke of Buckingham, strode into the musketeers garrison the next day, and marched straight into Captain's office. Ready to demand Tréville fetch Aramis, he was fortunate enough for the musketeer to already be there. With his three friends in tow.

"Can I help you?" Tréville demanded, jumping to his feet, but Robert had already grabbed Aramis by his doublet.

"Where is my sister?!"

Aramis shook him off, one look quelling his friends. "I don't know."

"She didn't return to her chamber last night, her bed was untouched. If you know something, please, tell me."

Aramis paled under his tan. "I left her in the garden."

Robert nodded, his heart racing. "I know, the Queen told me, I just thought—"

"I didn't see her afterwards," Aramis murmured. "Are you sure she didn't return?"

"She wasn't in her bed this morning. What do you think?"

Tréville placed his hand on his shoulder. "Who knows about this?"

"Me, you, her maid, but she won't tell a soul, and the Queen." Robert shrugged sheepishly. "They left the ballroom together."

"Then we should check the garden," Tréville supplied, "if that's the last place anyone had seen her last night. Or had you already done that?"

Robert gritted his teeth. "There's no sign of her."

The musketeers and their Captain exchanged glances, and Robert knew what they were thinking. The worried expression on Aramis' face confirmed his suspicions, but he refused to believe it. He refused to believe he's put Alexandra in danger. Again.

A young boy scrambled into the office. "My lord, are you the Duke of Buckingham?"

"I am." Had Alexandra been found? Was she all right? Had they found her body?

"Her majesty demands your presence at once." The boy looked at the musketeers. "And the one called Aramis."

.

.

They found Queen Anne in the garden, pacing back and forth by a low hedge. When she saw them, she frantically motioned for them to move closer.

"Thank you for coming," she said and nodded to Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan, who'd decided to tag along. "I found something." She pointed to a dark shape half hidden under the hedge.

It looked like a slipper. He picked it up, felt the fabric, the softness of the sole, saw the expertise with which the shoe had been made, and cursed under his breath. "It's hers."

The Queen nodded. "Yes, she was wearing those last night. She showed them to me, when I remarked she didn't make any sounds while walking."

Aramis echoed his earlier curse. "She's been taken."

A young man in the palace livery approached them with a little tray in his hand. He bowed to the Queen. "A message for the Duke of Buckingham, your majesty."

Robert took the offered folded piece of parchment and exchanged glances with Aramis. The musketeer was close enough to see the letter had been sealed with a plain seal, there was no monogram or crest, it was utterly anonymous. As the servant hurried away, he broke the seal, read the words. And felt like roaring with rage. Rage directed as much at himself as toward the bastards who've taken Alexandra.

Aramis snatched the parchment from his numb fingers. "Treaty or your sister." He crumbled the letter in his fist. "What is it with Richelieu and this blasted treaty."

"You don't know it's Richelieu," Athos said calmly.

Aramis glared at him. "Who else? He abducted Buckingham—"

"What?" Queen Anne interrupted. "What are you talking about? Oh, that's why she posed as a musketeer," she whispered, looking at Robert. "To save you."

"And when that failed," Aramis continued as if she hadn't spoken, "he'd gone after Alexandra."

"What is it with this treaty that bothers him so?" d'Artagnan asked.

Queen Anne shrugged. "Knowing the Cardinal, he probably has a treaty of his own in the works. With someone else."

"A treaty that will benefit mostly him," Porthos finished.

"I don't care for his reasons," Aramis snapped. "He has Alexandra and we need to find her." He turned toward the palace.

"What are you going to do?" Athos called after him.

"Find out where she is," Aramis shot back over his shoulder. "Even if I have to beat every Red Guard to a pulp."

Robert knew how the musketeer felt. He felt guilty for not following Alexandra into the garden, for not protecting her. He couldn't have known someone would kidnap her, but it would be pointless telling him that. Aramis needed to do something. He needed to feel useful. And he needed to keep busy, lest he start thinking. Because once you started thinking...Robert shuddered.

"She can take care of herself, right?" Porthos was obviously trying to be optimistic, but Athos would have nothing of it.

"She's alone, a woman against who knows how many, and she has no weapons." He looked at Robert. "No offence to your sister, but not even fighting dirty can get her out of this mess."

.

.

Actually, it was. As long as no one expected it, fighting dirty helped quite a bit. It had helped her escape the castle. Or whatever it was. She didn't turn to look at it, she didn't care. All she cared about was putting as much distance between herself and her would-be prison.

She's woken up on a cot when the sun was rising over the horizon, missing one shoe and her ribs hurting, but otherwise unharmed. She hadn't known how long she'd remain that way, so she'd needed to get out quickly. Which had proved rather difficult since the door had been locked, and her tiny cell bare of anything that might be useful to unlock it. So she'd proceeded in searching the walls for any loose stones to use as a weapon. She'd almost given up, when she'd encountered a stone in the corner beside the cot, just loose enough for her to be able to wiggle it about. It had taken her a while, but she'd worked the stone loose. It had been heavier than she'd anticipated and too large to hold in one hand, but using both hands, it proved to be just perfect.

When someone had banged on the door, yelling if she was awake, she'd kept silent. When the key had turned in the lock, she'd jumped onto the cot, the stone hidden underneath it, and pretended to still be unconscious. Then the door had opened and a man, judging by the thread of footsteps, had approached her, grumbling about weak females. Obviously satisfied with her still breathing, he'd turned to leave, only to be conked over the head by the stone-wielding weak female.

She's decided against taking his sword, since it was rather conspicuous, and taken only his dagger which was rather easier concealed in the folds of her skirt. Then, still armed with her stone, she'd locked him in her little cell, and gone in search of an exit. She'd taken a few wrong turns before finding a staircase, but she'd gained her freedom with nary a problem. They'd probably all thought her a weak female, safely locked in her cell, probably still unconscious, or better yet, weeping and praying for someone to save her.

She scoffed, dropped her rock, and scurried away from the door, her back to the wall. She rounded her would-be prison, and grinned upon seeing the thick woods at the back of the property. Taking a deep breath, she listened intently for any sign that she wasn't alone, that her escape had been detected, then when no sound came, she sent a quick prayer to the Heavens, and darted into the forest. Now, came the hard part. Find a road, follow it to a village, find out where she was, and send word to Paris. Or walk to Paris if she was near it.

She lifted her gown, and used the dagger to cut off her petticoat below her knees. She folded the fabric and twined it around her bare foot, further securing it with a few dead vines. As a shoe it had much to be desired, but it was better than being barefoot. She stabbed the dagger through what was left of her petticoat to secure it against her thigh, and dropped the gown back in place. Now she had a shoe and a makeshift sheath for her dagger. She looked up, judged the position of the sun, and took off in a more or less straight line. Sooner or later she'd stumble upon a road or at least a river she could follow.

It wasn't a road or a river, but a field that intersected her path. She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted a boy, no more than ten or twelve, lying in the shade of a large oak tree, whittling a piece of wood. His eyes widened as he saw her emerge from the woods.

She waved a little and smiled reassuringly. "Hello," she greeted him. "I took a little stroll and I'm afraid I'm lost. Where are we?"

"Close to Thiers-sur-Thève, _madame_ ," the boy replied.

That told her absolutely nothing. She had no idea where she was.

"It must've been quite a stroll." The boy's eyes darted to the woods behind her, then back to her, and he frowned. "You came from the _château_."

Her ears perked. Maybe she'd recognize the name of the castle. "What _château_?"

"Château de Pontarmé."

Alexandra sighed with relief. She knew of Pontarmé. It was a few hours ride from Paris to the north.

"You don't look like a courtesan," the boy interrupted her train of thoughts.

"Should I?"

The boy shrugged. "The only women frequenting the _château_ are courtesans. It's not a suitable place for a proper lady. Or so my mum says."

"Your mum sounds like a smart woman." Alexandra nodded sagely. "And I'm not a courtesan, they abducted me and took me there, but I escaped." He looked at her sceptically, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "My husband is a musketeer," she fibbed. "He taught me some moves."

"A musketeer," the boy whispered reverently, his eyes wide. "I want to be a musketeer when I grow up. Is that why the Red Guard took you?"

Red Guard? Alexandra gritted her teeth. So it was true, the Cardinal was behind all of it. "Yes," she lied some more. "They abducted me to force my husband to forfeit a duel."

"Bastards," the boy spat.

Alexandra nodded enthusiastically. "Now, tell me, is Thiers-sur-Thève close? I need to send a message to Paris."

The boy shook his head. "The Red Guard is crawling all over the village. Probably looking for you. It's not safe during the day, I'll take you to there at sundown, my mum and I will hide you until help arrives."

She couldn't wait that long. "Can you take a message to Paris?" she asked, clasped her hands together as if in prayer, when he shook his head again. "Please, it's important he knows I'm not harmed. Please." She had no money, but she had something of value. Her heart heavy, she pulled off the ring her father had given her. "Take this as payment. It's real gold and turquoise."

He was staring at the ring, yet shaking his head feebly.

"I know it doesn't look like much, but the stone itself is worth a little fortune. Please, help me."

She had no idea if it was the ring, the mention of the fortune or the plea that swayed him, but a few minutes later she was alone in the field with nothing but her own company. She only hoped the boy got to Paris in time. There was no doubt in her heart he would indeed go to Paris as directed. It was the force of positive thinking, as her mother, Lady Mary, used to say. If you thought good, positive thoughts, they became reality. So she _knew_ the boy would make it to Paris and the musketeer garrison—she didn't dare send him to the palace. And she _hoped_ her brother would be made aware of her fate before he did something rash like not sign the bloody treaty.


	24. Chapter 23

Philippe had been to Paris before. A few years ago, when his father had still been alive, he'd taken his son with him to buy grosgrain fabric for his seamstress mother. On that long ago trip, his father had also shown Philippe where the musketeer garrison was. He still remembered gaping at the musketeers as they walked past them, admiring their leather uniforms, their shoulder braces, the rapiers. They'd seemed incredibly tall to little Philippe, taller than his father, and if being a musketeer had been a wish until then, it had become an ambition. He wanted to be a musketeer one day, he wanted to wear the uniform and the shoulder brace, he wanted to rest his left hand on the rapier, he wanted to be that tall, walk so confidently.

Today, he had the feeling he was taking one important step closer toward his goal. By delivering a message on behalf of the lady with pale eyes, a musketeer's wife. He would step inside the garrison, he would take another glimpse into the world of the musketeers. He could feel the anticipation build inside him as he straightened atop his pony. They couldn't afford a real horse, his mum and him, and he was too little, even if they did. But he wouldn't be too little for long. His mum kept telling him he'd grow into his ears soon. So he would keep riding his pony until that happened. She hadn't yet let him down, his Lune, and she didn't let him down today, even though they'd never ridden this far yet. Or as hard.

He pulled back on Lune's reins as they approached the entrance to the musketeer garrison. His heart was suddenly in his throat as he dismounted and led Lune into the courtyard. What if he was too late? What if they didn't believe him? What if—

"Hey, you cannot be here, lad!"

Philippe froze and looked up, and up, and up, as a man, a musketeer approached.

"Are you lost or something?" The man's voice turned soothing and Philippe gritted his teeth. People tended to do that when they really looked at him.

He straightened his shoulders and met the musketeer's gaze straight on. "I'm not lost. I'm looking for Aramis."

"He's not here."

The lady had thought of that possibility, giving Philippe and additional name. "Then I need to see Captain de Tréville. It's urgent."

The musketeer put his hands on his hips. "I'm sure it is."

He didn't believe him. Philippe gritted his teeth. Of course the man didn't believe him. Why would a boy need to see the Captain of the musketeers about an urgent matter. "I have a message from Aramis' wife."

The man laughed. "Aramis doesn't have a wife."

Philippe stared up at the musketeer. Of course, this Aramis fellow had a wife. Philippe had talked to her just a few hours ago. "The lady with pale eyes."

The musketeer opened his mouth, to send him on his way, no doubt, when another musketeer, with darker skin and curly hair, rushed toward them.

"What did you say?" he enquired, his eyes intense.

This one looked like he was willing to listen. "Aramis' wife sent me," Philippe quickly began, but never got to finish.

"Tiny? With pale green eyes and skin as dark as mine?"

Philippe nodded, yet they were once again interrupted before he could say anything by the first musketeer greeting someone behind him. "I didn't know you're married, man."

Philippe turned to see three musketeers walking toward them. All three were of the same height, one younger than the other two. The one in the middle, with curly hair and a nicely trimmed beard and moustache, wearing a slightly longer doublet that probably made him stand out among his fellow musketeers, frowned. "What is going on, Porthos?"

The man who obviously knew the lady dropped his hand onto Philippe shoulder. "This boy claims Alexandra sent him."

The man in the long doublet was in front of Philippe in a heartbeat. "You've seen her?"

This had to be Aramis, the one the lady with the lovely name sent him to. Philippe wanted to dance with joy. He's accomplished his mission. "Yes."

Aramis exchanged glances with his two companions and the man who'd first believed him, Porthos. "What colour was her dress?"

"Green," Phillipe quickly said, then frowned. "Dark green and she only has one shoe." He'd seen her bound foot when she'd sat down in the shade of his oak tree. Then he remembered he had one more proof that he was telling the truth. "Look, she gave me this." He showed them the ring, belatedly realizing they might think he'd stolen it from her. "It was important to her, but she gave it to me as payment for delivering the message."

"Get Buckingham," Aramis ordered softly, and the younger musketeer ran off. Then he looked at Philippe. "What's your name, young man?"

"Philippe."

"It's nice to meet you, Philippe. I'm Aramis."

Philippe nodded. "She sent me to you."

Aramis smiled slightly. "Smart girl." Then he offered his hand. "Come on, let's take care of your horse and you can tell me everything."

.

.

Alexandra was bored. She wasn't good at sitting idly by, and she wasn't good at waiting. But that was all she could do. She couldn't go wander off, because this was the rendezvous spot. Right here, underneath the oak tree on the edge of the field. She'd decided that, she'd told the boy to tell that to the musketeers, so here she must remain. Waiting. Sitting idly by. Besides, it was a rather good hiding spot. If someone decided to come look for her, someone she didn't want to come looking for her, she could simply climb into the canopy and hide. Which was something else she wasn't very good at. Hiding. But this time she'd have to swallow her pride and do it. She might be a match for someone larger and heavier, but if there was more than one, she'd be in trouble with just her dagger as a weapon.

She'd eaten, there was plenty of food in the forest if you knew what to look for. Trifolium, Cichorium intybus, Stellaria media, Rumex crispus, Thalspi vulgaris, Oxalis, and some berries for dessert. She'd drunk from the canteen the boy had left her, refilled it from the stream she'd found burbling in the woods. She huffed, and leaned back against the tree. Everything she'd eaten had been raw, because, although she was able to construct snares to catch a more hearty supper, she didn't want to start a fire. Someone might see the smoke. But now she'd have to rethink her plan of having no fire. The sun would be setting soon and she had no other way of keeping warm.

If she built a small fire on the edge of the forest, it would probably remain undetected. Smoke wasn't as visible during the night as it was during the day, but the glow of a fire was. She gained her feet, and dusted off her gown. She'd wait a little while longer before starting the fire, but she might as well gather everything she needed for one. Once night fell, it would be too late to do anything but wait. At least, building a fire, she was doing something.

She was foraging for kindling, when she heard the sound of hoof beats. She'd found the road earlier when she was exploring her surroundings. It was lower than the field, located down a gentle slope, with birch trees down one side of it. The hoof beats were growing louder and she debated what to do. Wait or go see who was coming? Friend or foe? Neither of the two? By the sound of it, there was more than one rider. Musketeers? Her brother?

She dropped the kindling, grabbed her skirt, and ran. She skidded down the slope, feeling her makeshift shoe become undone. It didn't matter if her rescue was imminent. She shook off the binding, and peeked from behind a tree, feeling extremely thankful for having chosen a gown that helped her blend a little into her surroundings. There were four riders. She strained her eyes to see better, and a sigh of relief escaped her as they drew nearer and she caught sight of their uniform. Blue capes, leather doublets, and shoulder braces.

 _Musketeers._

She stepped from behind the tree and waved. Then her heart sank as they drew their horses to a stop. She didn't recognize them. They weren't here to rescue her, she doubted her brother would send her someone she didn't know. And she knew every musketeer in the Paris garrison. She was debating what to say, how to say it, when one of them leered.

"What have we here?" he asked, his accent rough.

"Good evening, _messieurs_ ," she greeted calmly. "Might I ask for your assistance?"

"Ye can ask for anythin' ye want, _madame_ ," the man with the rough accent replied. "Right, friends?" he directed his question to his companions.

"Aye, Athos," one of them agreed. "Anything."

She wanted to curse. "Athos?" she asked, her eyes darting toward the slope. "As the mountain?"

"What mountain?" the first man asked with a guffaw. "Athos as in the musketeer of the King."

Alexandra darted up the slope, but she wasn't fast enough. Not in a gown and not without one shoe. And especially not on foot while they had horses.

"I see my reputation precedes me," the one calling himself Athos chuckled, as he looked at her squirming in his companion's hold. "You heard of me."

"I've heard of Athos," she spat, delivering a rather solid kick to her captor's knee, forgetting all about the pain in her foot as he grunted, and staggered a little. "I've never heard of you."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then his eyes narrowed. "Ye sayin' I'm not Athos?"

"I _know_ you're not Athos." Another kick, another grunt, another stagger. She was wearing the bastard down. "Where did you get the uniforms? Did you steal them?"

The imposter grinned. "It's not stealin' if the man you're takin' it off is dead."

 _Murderers!_ Instead of voicing it, Alexandra gritted her teeth, blocked the pain, and kicked with all her might. Her captor lost his footing, and loosened his grip as they both went down. Alexandra didn't wait. She rolled off him and onto her knees, using the momentum to gain her feet. But her element of surprise was short lived. A meaty hand tangled in her loosened hair, bringing her to a stop, hurling her around to face them. The man using Athos' name lifted his hand and slapped her. She felt her lip split, tasted blood. He slapped her again, and she would've gone down if it wasn't for the hand still claiming her hair.

"We were thinkin' of taking ye to Pontarmé," the imposter muttered, an unholy gleam in his eyes, "share ye with our friends, but it's obvious ye need some breakin' in first."

They were Red Guard, murdering lapdogs to the Cardinal. Alexandra had no intentions of going back to being a prisoner. And she'd rather die than getting raped by the side of the road. She swallowed loudly, slumped her shoulders. Let them think she was afraid. She ran her palm down her bodice, took a fistful of her skirt, and started lifting it. Slowly...Slowly...Let them think she was more willing that she'd appeared to be.

"Well, well, she looks rather broken in to me," one of them said, his gaze running hungrily down to her exposed legs.

Yes, let them look at her legs, let them salivate at the promise of bliss. Keep them occupied with her body so they don't notice the dagger. The hilt firmly in her palm, she swung up and back, feeling it sink into flesh. A howl and her hair was free. She whirled, the hilt flush against her palm, the blade sticking out from the bottom of her fist, and swiped it in a short sweep toward the howling man's neck. He gurgled, as blood sprayed her face. She whirled again, in a low crouch, sinking the dagger into the inside of a meaty thigh. The blade was in an excellent condition, tearing through leather, skin and sinew like it was butter. She pulled it out easily, slicing at the hand suddenly gripping her upper arm. An upward swipe tore open a cheek narrowly missing a bulging eye, another sunk the blade into a neck, blood erupted as she pulled it out again. Her wrist was suddenly caught in a crushing grip, twisted until she dropped the dagger. Twisted some more, until she feared her wrist would break. Then her hands were secured behind her back, and she was shoved, face first onto the ground, turned roughly onto her back with a vicious kick. Only to look into the bloody face of the man using Athos' name.

"Bitch," he hissed, wiping at the blood running from the gash in his cheek. "Ye'll pay for this. Ye'll pay for this."

She was lying on her hands, her arms twisted painfully, her ribs hurting with every panting breath, her skirt wrapped around her legs. She tasted blood, the scent of it was in her nostrils, mixing with the smell of imminent death, and when he grabbed two fistfuls of her skirt and tore it apart, she knew she wouldn't live past this night. She just wished it would be over soon.


	25. Chapter 24

Aramis had never pushed his horse this hard. The other didn't understand the rush, Alexandra had escaped and was waiting for them, but there was something gnawing on him. An urgency to get to her as soon as possible, a sinking feeling in his gut, that they might be too late. Too late for what? She wouldn't go anywhere, she'd told Philippe she'd wait where the boy had left her. They knew exactly where she was. Safe and unharmed. So why did he keep spurring his horse, riding all the way from Paris without stopping. It wasn't good for the animal, he knew that, it wasn't good for any of them, but he _had_ to get to Alexandra.

He breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the narrow road with the slope gently rising behind the line of birch trees as the sun started it's descent toward the horizon. They were close. His heart stuttered as he saw the horses roaming on the road, their reins dragging in the dust, their manes flowing as they threw their heads and neighed. He exchanged glances with his three companions and they slowly approached. Something wasn't right. His heart stopped as he first smelled blood and death, then saw three bodies lying on the slope by the road. And then everything went blank as he saw a man stradling a bound woman amid the corpses, her hands bound behind her so she lay on them, her dark hair fanning on the grass, her pale eyes staring unseeing into the fiery sky.

A red haze descending on his vision, he heard a distant roar, knew deep inside it was his own, and then he was off his horse, his sword plunged into the man's writhing back. He heard the gurgling sound of death, and the haze slowly lifted, until there was only her filling his vision. Alexandra with her beautiful face covered with blood.

"God," he whimpered, and pushed the bastard off her. His eyes widened as he saw the front of her gown, her torso, was covered with blood as well. "God, no. Alexandra..."

Her eyes were still staring unblinking at the sky above her, and he felt something inside him shrivel and die. He was too late, she was gone. They'd killed her, they'd mercilessly ripped her from his life. He bowed his head, his hands balled into fists, as he silently vowed that she'd be avenged. Somehow, even if it took him a lifetime, everybody that had a hand in her abduction, in her death, would pay. And the Cardinal would suffer the most. The promise made, he leaned over her, and tenderly cupped her cheeks.

"Aramis?"

He brushed his fingers over her eyebrows, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. He could swear he heard her voice, barely a whisper, on the wind, as if her spirit was saying goodbye. He didn't want to say goodbye, not yet, not ever.

"Aramis?"

It wasn't the wind. It wasn't a trick of his mind. It was her voice. He frowned as she slowly blinked up at him, her eyes focused on him.

"Are you real?" she whispered.

He choked out a laugh, feeling tears spill down his cheeks, as he pulled her up, ran his hands frantically over her. "There's so much blood," he muttered as Athos cut her bonds.

"It's not mine," she told him, rubbing her wrists, the skin scraped from the rope. "I'm all right." She grabbed his hand, tucked her other hand under his chin to force him to look at her. "He didn't hurt me."

He stared at her, her words making no sense.

"You came in time," she whispered. "You saved me."

 _Oh, God!_ She'd protected herself, the blood was from the men. And he'd saved her from the one who'd overpowered her. She hadn't suffered her mother's fate, she hadn't been raped. "Oh, God," he choked out, hauled her into his arms, and buried his face against her neck. "I thought I lost you," he breathed against her skin. Her arms came around him, and he shuddered. Feeling her embrace him...It was the best feeling in the world. It was here that he belonged. In her arms. "I love you," he murmured.

"But..."

He lifted his head, cupped her cheeks. "I love you," he repeated, his voice strong and steady. "I thought I'd never be able to tell you." He stated into her wide eyes, wanting her to understand, to believe him. "I love you."

He pressed his lips to her forehead, closed his eyes on a silent prayer of thanks. Then he tucked his cape around her, lifted her into his arms, and took her to his horse where he reluctantly transferred her into Athos' arms. His friend relinquished his hold on her as soon as Aramis was in his saddle, and they set on a much slower way back to Paris.


	26. Chapter 25

Robert had spent the night nervously pacing up and down his chamber. He couldn't sleep, not with Alexandra gone, not without knowing her fate, whether the musketeers had reached her in time. D'Artagnan had fetched him to the garrison the previous afternoon with the promise of news. It had been good news, his sister had escaped and enlisted the help of a young lad to deliver her message. Aramis had insisted they depart immediately, and Robert could not have agreed more, especially after seeing the man's face. There had been something more than the need to get to the woman he loved driving the musketeer. There had been an urgency that spoke of life and death, and the thought of death, Alexandra's death, had been what had prevented Robert from sleeping that night.

He had no doubt she could take care of herself, she'd escaped unscathed and unharmed, but much could happen to a woman alone in a field, in the middle of a countryside she didn't know. Aramis had known it, despite having probably as much confidence in Alexandra as Robert had. A lot of things could happen. She could fall, she could be attacked by a wild animal, she could be apprehended again and forced back to Pontarmé or somewhere else , putting her out of their reach. Or worse, she could be dead already, and the message the boy had delivered had been a plan to draw the musketeers into a trap...No wonder he couldn't sleep, thoughts and gruesome images warring inside his head.

He'd been ready to depart for the garrison and badger Tréville for news the man couldn't possibly have, when he'd been summoned in front of the King.

He was ushered into the audience chamber where the royal couple awaited along with the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland. He gritted his teeth upon seeing the odious couple, but what had his hackles rising, was the view of Cardinal Richelieu. Who else could the man standing beside the King's throne, his lips curved into a satisfied smile be if not the bastard who'd organized not only his, but his sister's abduction. And for what?! For more power? To start a war with England? To gain an ally elsewhere? It took a veritably Herculean effort to restrain himself from running the cleric through with his sword, peace treaty be damned.

"Lord Buckingham." Cumberland's nasal tone grated on his nerves. The man was his equal in the hierarchy according to their title, but the Cumberland lineage was longer and older, and his status as the chief royal advisor unparalleled. He never missed an opportunity to prove his own superiority. Either by putting down him or his sister. "We're waiting for your signature."

His wife sniffed, disdain and disapproval written clearly in her eyes. She shared her husband's view that it was preposterous that Robert's signature was the one carrying all the weight in this treaty. That King James had chosen a young upstart with a tainted family name—adopting an orphan should prove the opposite—over his most trusted adviser and friend.

"Yes, your grace," the Cardinal said with a wave toward the desk where a document was placed, "why don't you sign?"

Robert merely stared at him in silence, thinking of all the possible ways of killing a man as slowly and painfully as possible.

The Cardinal smiled. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Cardinal Richelieu, the _premier ministre_ of France."

"I know who you are," Robert said with a calm he didn't feel, bowing slightly. Lifting his head, he met the Queen's gaze for the first time, seeing in her wide eyes all the apprehension and fear he didn't let himself feel. He shook his head slightly at the question in her eyes. There was no news.

"The treaty should've been signed yesterday, but you were _indisposed_ ," Cumberland whined, his eyes narrowed. "You look in good health now, so why don't you sign the document so we can all go home."

"You don't find our hospitality to your liking?" King Louis enquired and Robert had the pleasure of seeing Cumberland's face turn an unbecoming shade of purple.

"No, your majesty," Cumberland sputtered. "Quite the contrary, I just want to deliver the good news to King James."

"Quite understandable." Richelieu nodded, looked at Robert. "It's your turn, your grace." His smile turned sly. "All you have to do is sign. Or are you reneging on your word? Your King's word? Let me remind you, you were the one to approach us with the idea of this treaty. Pulling out now could prove to be disastrous."

"Buckingham," Cumberland hissed, "sign the bloody document."

"Yes, Robert, sign the bloody thing."

At the sound of the voice, every hair on his body stood on end. He turned and there she was. His sister. Alive. Bedraggled, her face smudged with something akin to mud, her hair undone, the skirt of her gown torn, her upper body covered with a musketeer cape. But she was alive. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was alive. He smiled and nodded slightly to Aramis, when he noticed the arm the musketeer kept around Alexandra's waist. Part protective, part possessive, and probably the only thing keeping her upright.

"What happened to you, Lady Alexandra?" the Queen asked. "Are you all right?"

"I'm quite all right, your majesty, thank you," Alexandra replied, her voice tired. "But there are people who obviously don't want to see this treaty being made reality. I was abducted, but your musketeers saved me."

"Thank God," Queen Anne breathed, her voice conveying her relief.

"Who would do such a thing?" the King enquired.

Alexandra nodded slightly, her eyes trained on Richelieu. "Who indeed?"

"Abducted?" The Duchess of Cumberland chuckled. "She was probably somewhere in Paris spreading her thighs for all four of them." She nodded toward the musketeers. "Just look at her."

Alexandra placed her hand on Aramis' chest, as the man, his jaw tightly clenched, made to move forward. "Yes, look at me," she said softly, and shrugged out of the cape.

The Bitch of Cumberland blanched and Robert swallowed a curse. The entire front of Alexandra's gown was covered in blood, her skin caked with it. What looked like mud smudges on her face, must've been blood as well.

"Look at me," she hissed as the Duchess averted her face. "I'm covered in blood and bruises, but I'm alive. You should be thankful, who would you be gossiping about if I was dead?" She looked at him. "Sign already, so my abductor can rot in Hell for all eternity knowing he's failed." She glared at Richelieu. "In this, he failed."

Robert nodded, winked at her, and strode to the desk where the treaty document lay. He scanned the parchment, and with a grim smile scrawled his name beside King Louis' signature. It was done. Richelieu had failed.

"Huzzah," Alexandra muttered. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

She offered an awkward curtsy, turned and grimaced as she stumbled. Before she could fall, Aramis sneaked his arm around her waist to steady her. Then he promptly picked her up in his arms, and with a bow of his head to the royal couple, carried her out of the audience chamber. She didn't protest, merely leaned her head against his shoulder as Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan trailed close behind as their own protective escort.


	27. Chapter 26

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. Who wouldn't be? The past few hours had been more than draining. She'd escaped from captivity only to be almost raped and killed by the side of the road. And then she'd spent the night in the saddle, determined to reach Paris as soon as possible. The men had obliged her by not stopping anywhere, not even for her to wash off, but she knew they'd ridden much slower than they could have. She couldn't berate them, they'd been looking out for her, trying to make her as comfortable as it was possible sharing the saddle with someone. She sighed. Aramis hadn't let go of her, keeping her warmly swaddled in his cloak, his arm around her waist providing added heat, keeping her safely nestled in his lap, her back leaned back against his chest. He'd saved her, had kept her safe and warm during their journey. And after, when they'd arrived at the audience the only thing that prevented her from falling on her face had been his arm. Holding her, steadying her, giving her strength. Then he'd picked her up, in front of everybody, unheeding of any shocked gasps, cradled her in his arms, and carried her away.

She sighed again and opened her eyes. They were moving along the corridors of the palace toward her brother's suite. The hallways appeared empty, not a person was in sight, no one to gasp, no one to send judgemental glares their way. Even their three-person escort, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan that had followed them from the audience chamber, had obviously retreated. They were alone.

She looked up at his profile drinking him in from his wavy hair, down his forehead, over his eyebrow perfectly arched over warm brown eyes, the straight nose, and lips half hidden by his beard. He was beautiful. Inside and out. He was strong and powerful, protective, proud and honourable. And he loved her. She felt her lips tremble at the thought. He loved her. This wonderful, amazing man loved her. She had no reason to doubt him, there had been truth in his eyes when he'd told her. Truth, mixed with fear for her safety, with fear of losing her. He loved her...

He turned his head, their eyes met, held. She felt a corner of her mouth curve up in a sombre smile as her heart beat sluggishly in her chest.

"You're saying goodbye," she whispered.

He looked away without a word, never breaking his stride.

With a dejected little nod, she leaned her head once more against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She was so tired. Tired of pleading, of arguing, of reasoning. She couldn't anymore. It was futile. Just like loving him was futile. It didn't change anything, it just hurt. She didn't want to hurt anymore. She just wanted to go home and forget. Continue with her life as it had been before Robert was abducted, before she'd ventured into France on a seemingly impossible rescue mission. Before she'd fallen in love with the wrong man.

He didn't stop when they reached her chamber, but shouldered the door open, and carried her inside where Meg dropped her mending with a shriek. He deposited her gently into a plush chair, sending Meg scuttling out of the room for water with a soft command.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, looking down at her awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Don't be," she replied, smiling slightly, proud of herself when her lips didn't wobble, her voice didn't crack.

"Richelieu doesn't forget," he went on. "If you stay, you'll always be in danger."

Yet another excuse. She nodded. "Don't worry, I understand completely." She hated having to look so far up, so she slowly stood, locking her knees when they threatened to crumple. "You were right, there's nothing here for me, so I will leave with my brother. I'm sure he wants to depart as soon as possible."

He nodded stiffly, his swallow audible.

She offered him her hand. "Thank you for everything, Aramis."

He was looking at her hand as if it was a strange object he'd never seen before. Then he looked at her, his eyes troubled, his forehead creased as if he was trying to read her mind and failing. "It's for the best."

"I know." She cleared her throat. "Look, it's not a trick, I'm not being difficult. I'm just thanking you for what you've done for me. For my brother. We'll be forever in your debt. Yours and Athos', Porthos' and d'Artagnan's. You saved our lives. Thank you."

He finally took her hand, his fingers enveloping hers. She shivered at the contact. She couldn't falter. He didn't want her. He might love her, but he didn't want her enough to ask her to stay. She had to be strong now, she couldn't let him show how much it hurt, how much _he_ hurt her. She'd made the decision to go with her brother without a protest, and by God, she'd stick to it. No matter how good his fingers felt clasped around hers, how she longed to feel his arms around her, no matter how good his warm breath felt on her skin as he lowered his head over her hand. She steeled herself, biting back a sigh as he kissed her hand.

He lifted his head, still holding her hand. His throat worked, the crease between his brows deep. He looked away, his jaw tight, then met her eyes again. "I love you." His voice shook slightly.

She pulled her hand out of his grasp. "I know." She wouldn't say it back. She couldn't. "You better go."

He looked as if she'd stabbed him and she had to clasp her hands behind her back to prevent herself from reaching for him. Then he bowed, murmured a goodbye, and walked to the door. She watched him, not daring to breathe, as he paused. Ran his fingers impatiently through his hair, spat a curse. He turned to look at her, and her heart lodged in her throat. He wouldn't. He couldn't. She couldn't bare it.

 _Don't do it! Please, don't. Please, just go. Leave me alone! Leave me be! Don't...Please._

The beseeches were all in her head, she didn't speak, she couldn't. So he didn't hear her. And he didn't heed her.

"Damn it," he hissed and shook his head. "Damn you."

He was in front of her in two strides, and then his arms were around her, his lips on hers. His grip was bruising, almost punishing as he pulled her close, pinning her to his chest. She could feel his heart beating as fast, as erratically as hers. She heard his harsh breathing, hers...Then he thrust his tongue into her mouth, and her entire being narrowed into a single pinpoint. _Him._ His strong arm around her waist, his palm in the middle of her back, his callused fingers cupping her cheek, grasping her chin as he angled her head just so. His chest so broad, so hard against hers, his scent, his breath mixing with hers. The dance and tangle of his tongue against hers as he nudged her feet apart, stepped between them, craned her head back, and ravished her mouth.

She was trembling with the effort it took to keep her arms at her sides when all she wanted to do was throw them around him and hold on for dear life. She was trembling with need under his assault on her senses. And she trembled with anger and pain. She wanted to push him away, and she wanted to pull him closer. She wanted to scream at him to let her go, beg him to hold her forever. She wanted—

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. With an agonized groan, he tore his mouth from hers and strode away, slamming the door shut behind him as he walked out of her life.

She stood there, her fingernails biting into her palms, trembling, as she stared at the closed door. At the intricate pattern in the wood, until it started to blur. She blinked, but her vision didn't clear. She blinked again. And again. And again, feeling something trickle down her cheeks. Slowly she lifted her hand to her face, feeling the moisture on her fingertips. She took her hand away as she tasted salt on her lips. A shudder wracked her body as a sob escaped. Her knees gave in and she dropped onto the carpet. One arm around her waist to still the shudders, and the other hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs, for the first time in more than twenty years Alexandra Hamilton-Burke let herself cry as sorrow and heartache took over.

.

.

Late next morning, as thick fog still shrouded the Paris streets, creating a perfect camouflage for a man not wanting to be seen, Aramis watched as she emerged from the palace. Head held high, with no apparent sign of the last two strenuous days, she headed toward the waiting carriage where Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan stood to bid her farewell. They hadn't bothered with inviting him to accompany them, they knew he couldn't face her. And so here he stood, in the shadows of the park, hidden by the fog, watching her from afar. As if knowing he was there, she looked in his direction and he had to resist the urge to step back, deeper into the fog. She couldn't see him, she couldn't know he was there. And she gave no indication to the contrary, but turned back to his three friends, curtsied slightly, and took her brother's offered hand to help her get into the carriage.

He kept standing there in the fog long after the carriage had rolled away.


	28. Chapter 27

_Six months later_

"Get out!" Tréville snarled, then glared at Aramis as Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan dragged their feet out of his office. "Not you." His voice turned silky. Dangerous. "You stay."

A few years back, hell a few months back, Aramis would've swallowed thickly, waiting for the verdict, dreading it. Not anymore. That had been a different time, he'd been a different person. A few months back Aramis still cared about his employment, enjoyed his employment. Now he didn't. It was a job which he happened to be good at. It helped him pass the time from waking to going to sleep, it put food in his mouth and clothes on his back. Nothing more. Although, he couldn't claim not to care about anything anymore. There were his three friends, putting their necks in danger because of him. That was his only regret for his behaviour of late. That Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan were in danger because he was reckless, because he didn't care about what happened to him. He cared about what happened to the other three and he'd tried to push them away, keep them from the deep, dark hole he'd crawled into, but they wouldn't be deterred. They followed him into the hole, kept pulling him out of it, put their lives on the line in order to save his.

That's what this latest foray into Tréville's office was about as well. He'd gone off half-cocked in search of danger, in search of that elusive destruction, and his three friends had followed him. Again. And he'd almost gotten them all killed. Again. It seemed Tréville had finally had enough. Aramis smirked slightly. It was about time, really. Once he wasn't a musketeer anymore, maybe he'd be rid of his three guardians. He doubted it, they certainly seemed adamant in sticking to him like ticks. Even d'Artagnan's impending fatherhood hadn't swayed them. He rolled his eyes in disgust. One would think that a man about to become a father would take better care of himself, but no, there the lad was, right at his side, in front of him, or watching his back. Idiot. They were all idiots. He was a lost cause. He thought Athos was good at recognizing those, but he'd been wrong. They stayed, they stuck, they protected, they got hurt, and they annoyed the hell out of him.

"What the Devil is wrong with you?!" Tréville roared, bringing him out of his reverie.

"Nothing, sir," Aramis replied, albeit knowing the question had been rhetorical. But his answer probably infuriated the Captain even more, so that was a bonus.

"Bollocks!" Tréville spat. "You have a death wish, we all know it, but you also have three loyal friends that won't let you die without putting up a fight."

"No one asked them."

Tréville scowled. "They're musketeers. And they're your friends. God only knows why. They're doing what every good friend would do. Trying to save you."

"I don't need saving."

"No, what you need is to pull your head out of your arse and stop this before it's too late."

Aramis arched an eyebrow at the Captain's choice of words.

"What will it take, huh?" Tréville put a hand on his shoulder. "One of your friends dying? What will it take for you to see you're wasting your life, son?"

Aramis looked at him, wondering at the change in the Captain's voice, his demeanour.

"This isn't even a life, Aramis," Tréville said softly. "It's a poor copy of it and your friends are trying to show it to you. Keep you from throwing what you could have away. They're risking their lives for yours, because they know you deserve it. We all do."

He knew that, he knew his friends were sacrificing all for him. Their lives, their happiness, their future. Damn it, Constance was with child yet d'Artagnan spent more time with him than with his wife. Porthos had found joy with a lovely widow, was contemplating marriage, but wouldn't leave the musketeers because of him. And Athos...Athos had finally moved past his past, was looking forward to playing uncle to d'Artagnan's children, was talking about retiring to his estate, but couldn't because of him. They were musketeers to the core. All for one and one for all.

Aramis suddenly felt ashamed. Humbled. They were there for him, keeping him safe, keeping him alive, but was he there for them? Was he living by the second part of the musketeer motto? No. He wasn't. He was selfish. Had been selfish for a while. Ever since that foggy morning when he'd watched the carriage depart the palace, taking his heart, his life with it.

Tréville smiled as if he'd read his thoughts and liked the conclusion. "There are plenty of musketeers, I can spare the four of you. You've done enough. All of you. Now you deserve a normal life. A family. Happiness." He looked at Aramis pointedly. "All of you."

Aramis swallowed convulsively. "Sir..."

"Don't think," Tréville snapped, slapping him on the back of his head. "Thinking is what brought you here. Thinking makes you stupid." He thumped his fist on his chest, over his heart. "This is never stupid. And it's never wrong. Why don't you listen to it for a change?"

"I lost it, sir," Aramis admitted softly.

Tréville smiled. "Go get it back, then."


	29. Chapter 28

_England, two months later_

Lady Alexandra Hamilton-Burke muttered a very unladylike curse and swatted at the annoying fly buzzing around in front of her eyes. Unfortunately, the movement dislodged a lock of hair that had been annoying her before the fly and she'd successfully tucked blown off her face. Now it swung back down, over her brow, tickling her nose. She rolled her eyes and blew at it, but it wouldn't be deterred. She blew at it again, with more force, yet the stubborn lock swung quickly back down again.

Blow. Swing. Blow. Swing. Blow. Tickle.

She gritted her teeth, wishing, not for the first time in the past few, unnaturally warm days for the English countryside, that she was bald. At least she wouldn't have to deal with the ticklish hair and droplets of sweat making her scalp itchy and trickling down the sides of her face.

But a sweaty face and itchy scalp were just two of her many problems of late. Her entire body was sweaty, not matter the thin material her clothes were made of, her skin was clammy and itchy, and she hasn't been sleeping well at night. Damn the unnatural heat wave, damn her itchy skin, damn her lack of sleep, damn the sweat dripping from everywhere, even in the moderately cool interior of the manor house, damn the clammy hair, damn the uncooperative bladder, damn the ache in her back...

Damn. The. Bloody. Fly.

She stabbed her trowel into the flower bed in front of her and gained her feet, wincing at the dull ache in her back. She muttered another curse and closed her eyes as the world spun before her eyes. Here was another thing she hated these days. The world doing cartwheels every time she stood up too quickly or did anything too quickly.

But what she hated even more than the spinning world and her inability to do anything or move at a speed faster than a snail's pace, were the hoverers. Each time the world spun, each time she did anything more than smile and bat her lashes, there was someone near. Hovering. Annoying her.

When she wasn't feeling annoyed or cranky, it made her feel warm inside. People hovered, because they loved her. People hovered, because they cared. But since there hasn't been a day lately that she hadn't felt not annoyed or cranky, the warm feelings were nowhere to be found. The hovering merely infuriated her.

As it did now, when Cook grabbed her elbow to steady her.

"Easy does it," she murmured in a soothing tone that did nothing to soothe Alexandra. It merely made her grit her teeth even harder.

"I'm fine," she snapped, too cranky, too hot, too sweaty, and too bloody annoyed to bother to apologize for her tone. Deep down, she knew Cook wasn't at fault, no one was when they hovered, she knew that she was being a bitch, but she couldn't be bothered to care.

So, obviously, couldn't be Cook, because the woman merely smiled, patted her hand, and nodded. "Of course, you are. Shall we go inside? I have fresh biscuits, we'll make you a cup of tea, and you can put your feet up."

She didn't want to put her feet up! Yet the biscuits and tea sounded nice. She rolled her eyes just for the sake of it, and meekly nodded. Come to think of it, she might put her feet up as well. Her ankles were starting to throb a little.

But before she and Cook could make but a few steps toward the house, little Jamie, the stable master's son, rounded the corner at top speed, barely managing to stop, before he ploughed into them.

He gasped for breath, and lifted a small hand to stop the Cook from launching into a tirade. The way the woman's face turned crimson in outrage, made Alexandra smile. She waddled closer to the boy, and bent forward a little, so they were on eye level.

"What is it?" It had to be important for him to run so. And to her. Granted, Robert was visiting a friend in the neighbouring county, so she _was_ the one in charge until her brother returned, but they'd all agreed she shouldn't be bothered for every minute detail. "What happened, Jamie?"

"Four men," he gasped. "On horses...approaching the manor."

Alexandra frowned. The visit was unannounced or Robert would be here. Or they knew Robert wasn't home, and decided to try their luck on an unprotected estate. But this was the Buckingham estate. Surely they must know what the name meant in Court. Her frown deepened. What if the Buckingham name meant nothing in Court anymore? Is that why the visitors were here?

Her mind made up, she purposefully made her way in the other direction, toward the front of the house, only for her path to be blocked by Cook wearing a thunderous expression.

"Where do you think you're going, missy?"

"To see what is going on."

Cook vigorously shook her head. " _You_ are going into the house."

Alexandra glared. "Who's the mistress here, Cook?"

If her tone or the pulling of rank had any effect on Cook, the woman didn't show it. She grabbed Alexandra's elbow, and turned her back toward the kitchen door. "You're going inside, _Lady_ Alexandra," she said determinedly, "where you can rest, while Jamie here will call the men."

As the lad dashed away, Alexandra also made her move. She snatched her elbow from Cook's grasp, pivoted, and, swallowing hard against the light-headedness that threatened to overwhelm her, dashed, as quickly as she could, back toward the front courtyard. She'll be damned before she let anyone invade her home against her wishes. And she'll be damned if she let anyone woman- or manhandle her in her own house. Even if their intentions were good.

"Wait," Cook panted after her, having been thrown out of balance by Alexandra's sudden escape long enough to allow her charge to reach the corner of the manor. "Lady Alexandra, please, if they see you—"

Alexandra didn't hear the rest. As she rounded the corner, the four riders were already reining in their horses, and the world around her turned into a blur of colour and a cacophony of sound. Her heart sped up, blood roared in her ears, and it was all she could do to keep upright. And conscious. She'd never been so thankful for Cook's steadying hand on her back and elbow, as she was when the woman reached her side.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, "I should've gone inside earlier, Cook. The heat is making me see things."

She blinked, fully expecting the mirage of the man currently dismounting his horse, his piercing gaze trained on her, to disappear. Yet he didn't disappear, and neither did his three companions.

"Oh, my God," she whispered again. "They're real."

"Of course, they're real," Cook groused beside her. "Do you know them?"

Alexandra fought a smirk. If Cook only knew. "All right," she said calmly, "don't let go, please, I don't want to end up on my bum in front of them."

"What are you doing?" Cook hissed as Alexandra took a small step forward.

"What I was trained to do," Alexandra hissed back, then, plastering a brilliant smile on her face, looked at the fearsome foursome. "Welcome, gentlemen. Would you like some tea?"


	30. Chapter 29

She was the first, the only thing he saw when he pulled his horse to a stop. _Alexandra_. Tiny. Dishevelled. Beautiful...Pregnant.

He swallowed thickly, and dismounted, his eyes never leaving her. She blinked as if thinking he was an apparition, and he fought a smile. God, how he missed her. How has he thought it possible to live without her? To live his life without looking at her every single day?

She whispered something to her companion, a stout woman holding onto her firmly, walked slowly forward, and smiled. Aramis gritted his teeth as she offered a polite greeting, and then spat a curse, as she offered them tea.

Tea?!

He didn't want tea. He didn't want her to act as if they were mere acquaintances. They were much more than that. Weren't they? Had she forgotten already? Had she forgotten _him_ already? What about the child she was carrying, her hand placed protectively over her belly as she looked at him? He wanted to cry, to crumble to his knees in break down at the injustice of it all. He was too late, he's waited too long, and all was lost. But then, he looked into her eyes, really looked into her eyes, and what he saw there, made it all worthwhile. The pain and darkness he's endured in the past months, the meticulous plan set in motion and executed before he and his companions embarked on the journey to England, the jittery nervousness and fear accompanying him on the ride through the countryside...

The hope he saw in her pale green eyes—god, how he missed her eyes—mixing with tears of joy and fear, and so much love he thought his chest would burst, told him more than words could. All was not lost. She hadn't forgotten him, she hadn't stopped loving him.

He didn't need words, the look in her eyes was reassurance enough. He took off his hat, threw it to the side, and then she was in his arms. Where she belonged. Where she'll be for the rest of their lives, God willing.

Her companion let out a gasp of protest, but he barely heard it. Ignored it, as he lowered his head, his gaze glued to Alexandra's. The first taste of her lips after eight long and lonely months, nearly brought him to his knees. He tightened his arms around her, conscious of her protruding belly between them. _Their child._

Her mouth opened on a sigh, her eyelids fluttered close as she lifted her arms to circle them around his neck, and he let his own eyes close as he deepened the kiss with a groan. God, he missed her taste, her wicked little tongue dancing with his, the fingers playing softly with the hair at his nape, the feel of her body next to his. He wanted nothing more than to—

"Hold on just a moment!" A woman's angry voice intruded, and someone pulled him away. Well, tried to. There was no chance in hell he was letting go of Alexandra. Ever again. "Let her go this instant!" the woman's voice snapped, and he fought a moan as Alexandra, reluctantly, broke the kiss.

He couldn't fight a smile, though, when she glared at the stout woman beside them. "You're out of line, Cook," she snapped.

The older woman would not be deterred. "I'm out of line, missy? I'm out of line?! Who's kissing a stranger in the middle of the courtyard for all the world to see?!"

"He's not a stranger," Alexandra supplied with a smile.

"Not a stranger?!" The woman was slowly turning purple, prompting Aramis to rack his brain as to the appropriate procedure in case of an attack of the nerves. "Who is he?"

Aramis placed one hand on Alexandra's belly, and grinned at the purplish woman. "The father." His English was good, but there was no hiding an accent.

"He's French?!" the woman screeched, turning pale as if she'd seen a ghost, and Aramis winced. Apparently him being French was worse than him impregnating her unmarried mistress.

"Is that why you're here?" Alexandra asked softly, her eyes swimming with tears. "You knew about the baby?"

He cupped her cheeks in his hands, lifting her face so he could look her directly in the eye. "I had no idea, but you should've let me know," he admonished.

"Then why are you here?" she asked, her voice small.

Only the truth would do. "Because I love you. Because I don't want to live without you. I cannot live without you."

The hope blossoming in her eyes was overwhelming, but it was quenched as quickly as it appeared. "You're only saying it because of the baby."

He wanted to pull at his hair and scream. He was entirely to blame for her thinking that. The way he'd acted, the things he'd said before she left Paris, could give her no indication to the contrary. "I'm saying it because I love you, Alexandra," he told her. "I love you and I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if necessary."

Tears welled. "But you said—"

"I was an idiot." He smiled. "I don't want to be an idiot anymore."

"Good luck with that," Athos said with a chuckle as his three friends joined them. They all bowed, and Athos grinned at Alexandra. " _Mademoiselle_ , I'll be the first to admit that my friend here is an idiot."

Aramis glared at him, while Alexandra chuckled.

"But the idiot loves you. Believe me, believe us, he's been impossible to live with these past couple of months." The four musketeers exchanged glances, silently repeating their earlier vow of not telling Alexandra everything, and Athos continued, an earnest expression on his face, "Would you be so kind as to please put us out of our misery for having to bear with that side of him any longer?"

Athos grinned at him, his raised eyebrows conveying the clear message that Aramis should do the rest. Properly.

He softly took Alexandra's hands into his own, and went down on one knee in front of her. He kissed her knuckles, and looked up at her, seeing tears spill down her cheeks. He hoped everything he felt for her, feelings that words could never describe properly, everything she was to him, everything she represented for him, reflected in his eyes. Some of it must have shown, because she gasped, and offered him a wobbly smile.

"Alexandra..." He had to clear his throat before continuing. "I love you. I love you more than anything in the world, and I'm sorry it took me so long to realize my life is empty without you. I'm _nothing_ without you. You make me whole, you fill the gaps in my soul that I thought could never be mended. I should've never let you go, I should've come after you sooner. I know I hurt you, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you." He cleared his throat once more. "I have no title and no land to my name, all I can offer you is my word, my body, my soul, and my heart that is beating for you and you alone."

"That's all I ever wanted," she whispered, tears flowing freely.

He kissed her knuckles again, fervently, and returned his eyes to hers. "Lady Alexandra Hamilton-Burke, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Her face contorted and she burst into tears, and his hope plummeted. What if he was too late? What if she already belonged to another to protect her virtue? What if—He let go of her hands, jumped to his feet. "Alexandra..." He winced when she slammed her fist into his shoulder. He'd forgotten her strength. She punched him again. "Ouch!" He quickly caught her hand before she could deliver another blow. "Alexandra!"

"You cannot ride back into my life as if nothing happened, you bastard!" She punched him with the other hand, and he caught her other wrist as well. "You cannot just kiss me and ask me to marry you. What about your big excuse for us not to be together, huh? What about the Cardinal?"

"The Cardinal has been sentenced to death on charges of treason," Athos helpfully supplied.

She looked at his friend, her watery eyes wide in surprise. "Treason?"

"It helps to have friends in high places." Athos winked at her and Aramis wanted to strangle him. No one winked at her! No one but himself.

She turned back to him, her lips forming an 'o' of question, and he nodded. It was true. Once he'd finally pulled his head out of his arse, as Tréville had so eloquently put it, the four of them, along with the Captain, had to form a plan to ensure Richelieu could never have the opportunity to possibly hurt Alexandra in any way. The only solution was to get rid of the Cardinal, but they knew they couldn't simply kill him, the possible repercussions of killing a head of state were too great. The only way was to find enough evidence against him to present to the King. It took them two months, but in the end they'd accomplished it, and it was Richelieu himself that had a helping hand in his own demise. The man was too cocky for his own good, thinking no one could touch him, that no one could find damning evidence in his abode, his own servants including. The man had paid a high price for his hubris.

"He cannot hurt Robert or you," he murmured. "He cannot hurt anybody ever again."

He rolled his eyes as she burst into tears again. He was getting tired of this. Whatever _this_ was. If she didn't want him she could damn well say it!

"Alexandra!" he snapped. "What is it? Don't you love me? Are you betrothed to someone else? Talk to me. Why are you crying?"

She pulled her right hand out of his grasp and punched him in the shoulder. Again. "That's for thinking I could possibly want to marry anyone else!" She glared at him and delivered another punch. "That's for thinking I don't love you. And this," she growled, and punched him once more, "is for impregnating me which is why I'm so bloody emotional!"

He caught her wrist, and hid his smile by kissing her knuckles. God, he'd missed her. He never thought it was possible to miss someone that much. "I missed you," he confessed.

"I missed you, too," she answered with a pout.

"I love you, you know."

She nodded. "I know." Then rolled her eyes as he stared at her. "I love you, too."

This time he didn't bother hiding his grin. "Make me whole again, Alexandra."

Her answer, the only answer he needed, was a long, loving kiss.

 **The End**

* * *

 _A/N: Here we are, at the end of the story. Thank you so much for your patience with me and my sporadic updating, and thank you for reading and reviewing this story that didn't want to end. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. XO, M._


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